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TH E 



NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER: 



A COLLECTION OF 



ORATORICAL AND DRAMATICAL PIECES, 

SOLILOQUIES AND DIALOGUES, 



WITH AN 



ORIGINAL INTRODUCTORY ESSAY 



ON THE 



ELEMENTS OF ELOCUTION 



DESIGNED 



FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, AND COLLEGES, 



BY J. C. ZACHOS, 

ASSOCIATE PRINCIPAL OF THE COOPER FEMALE ACADEMY. 



CINCINNATI: 
H. W. DERBY & CO., PUBLISHERS. 
1851. 



7^ * % 







*f 3 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 

H. W. DERBY & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Ohio. 



A. C. JAMES, STEKEOTYPEK, 

167 VALNUT ST.. CINCINNATI. 



PEEFACE 



I have proposed to myself, in this work, to put a better book 
in the hands of the student of oratory, than has yet been given 
to the public. There are already some excellent manuals on 
the subject : but I say it without the least invidious design, and 
in accordance with most teachers of elocution with whom I have 
conversed, that they are found inadequate to the purpose of 
instruction and copious illustration. 

Many of these are almost entirely taken up with the dissection 
of the subject by minute technical details and numerous rules ; 
or, in the absence of all system and theory, they are a jumbled 
collection of illustrations, in which leanness and barrenness are 
very conspicuous. 

The chief fault to be found with such books of elocution as I 
have met, is, that whereas the English language abounds with 
such a vast amount of the most fervid eloquence ; with so many 
specimens of language wrought out with a concentration of 
thought and rhetorical power, that must strike fire from the 
coldest heart; with such high-wrought descriptions, and dra- 
matic, passionate and powerful exhibitions of feeling ; these 
books of oratory seem to have stumbled on very little of all 
these ; and show up, for the most part, but " a beggarly account" 
of tame and dry pieces, with here and there a gem of pure water. 

I have designed, therefore, the present work, with two points 
in view : to have a system clear and complete, but briefly ex- 
pressed, so as to give unity of method and symmetrical organism 
to the book, without repelling the student with too much tech- 
nicality ; and after this, to have a copious collection of illustra- 
tions, in which no point of rhetorical excellence should be 
omitted, and none of which should be unworthy of a high place 
in the estimation of the student of oratory and dramatic 
expression. 



IV PREFACE. 

Let it be borne in mind, that it is not the object of such a 
book to give merely specimens of fine writing, but of declamatory 
and dramatic speaking. Hence I have rejected everything that 
could not come under one of the following heads : earnest 
declamation, vehement invective, dramatic passion and descrip- 
tion, wrapt meditation and soliloquy, fine wit, rich humor, and 
spirited dialogue. 

How far I have succeeded in this, I leave others to judge. 
I have not been so sedulous of novelty in all my selections, as 
of intrinsic excellence. Here will be found a number of those 
pure and noble specimens of eloquence, such as Chatham's, 
Patrick Henry's, "Webster's, which no book of professed elocution 
can leave out ; and it will be remembered that to the youthful 
student they are all new. 

The preliminary essay has some original analyses in articula- 
tion, and other points of elocution, to which I would respectfully 
call the teacher's attention. 

If the work should materially promote the noble art of speak- 
ing, too much neglected in our country, I shall feel myself amply 
rewarded for the no small labor which it has cost me. 

J. C. Z. 



INTRODUCTION 



Science is taught by precept ; Art must be taught by example. 
Elocution is an art, and therefore cannot be learned from books. 

No book can supersede the living teacher. Here, as in all art, 
Nature must be appealed to at every step ; there is no other or higher 
court to which to carry the decision. 

The teacher by example can best stimulate the student to open 
his ear to the voice of Nature. A book such as this is only intended 
to stimulate and assist the consciousness of the student in the 
apprehension of Nature's dictates, and to serve the teacher with an 
efficient means of illustration. 

It is a sign of narrowness and poverty of spirit, that the art of 
speaking is so poorly cultivated in most of our schools and colleges. 
It is but an imperfect preparation that they can give a man to enter 
society, without giving him the power of delivery of thought and 
feeling. The want of it makes the freeman afraid to exercise his 
rights, the thinker give way to the mere talker, the true statesman 
to the demagogue. 

It makes poor, sniffling interlocutors, instead of bold and manly 
orators. It puts the province of governing in the hands of the 
shameless and the foolish, instead of those of the good and wise. 

Let every youth be taught to speak ; those who have talent and 
virtue will have so much the advantage over the stupid and the 
vicious. 

But health of body as well as of mind depend upon this. There 
is scarcely a muscle or organ in the body, that is not brought into 
free and healthful exercise by an energetic exertion in speaking. 

Let any one study his experience in giving a loud and continuous 
sound, and he will find how complicated and great is the effort. 

The knees are stiffened ; the muscles of the back erect the person 
to the utmost; the abdominal muscles are brought strongly into 
play ; the intercostal muscles expand the chest, and the lungs have 
the freest movement ; the circulation is quickened, and the whole 
man is roused to the centre of his living organism. 

Can such an exercise be often resorted to without the greatest 
physical benefit? 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

Children would suffer infinitely less from the sedentary habits and 
confinement of school, if they were given exercises in a sort of 
vocal gymnastics several times a day, in the course of the other 
school exercises. Many would thus be saved from consumption, 
bronchitis, spinal affections, and the numerous diseases that are 
often traced to confinement at schools and academies. 

There seems a general prejudice against subjecting girls at school 
to vocal exercises, which works much to their injury in this respect. 

Calisthenics and vocal gymnastics should be as much a part of 
their training as that of boys ; but in a different spirit, and for a 
different purpose. It is certain they need it as much physically, and 
in another aspect they need it as much morally. For though they 
are not expected to become public orators, it is no reason that their 
souls should be shut up in a husky and sputtering speech, or in a 
trembling and weak voice. Modesty and delicacy have nothing to 
do with such things, and it is folly to suppose that the full and ener- 
getic development of the woman can lead to anything but to what 
is noble and beautiful. 

Note. — The following movements, breathings and exercises of the 
voice suitable for the school-room, by expanding the chest, quickening 
the circulation, and imparting energy and pliancy to the respiratory and 
vocal organs, have considerable iise in developing the powers of elocution. 

M O VEME NTS. 

1st. Position erect, with arms a-kimbo. The head elevated, the 
shoulders back and down; place the hands upon the hips, then 
throw the elbows forcibly backward. 

2d. Move the hands, after extending them downward by the sides, 
briskly up and down. 

3d. Let the hands and arms be placed in a vertical position ; 
then drawn down and projected upward with force. 

4th. Extend the arms horizontally forward, and move them back 
and forth quickly and with force. 

5th. Place the arms horizontally forward with the palms of the 
hands together ; then throw them apart forcibly, bringing the back 
of the hands as nearly as possible behind the back. 

6th. A variety of exercises in gestures descriptive or passionate, 
for the purpose of acquiring grace in movement. These the good 
taste and ingenuity of the teacher must suggest. 



INTRODUCTION. Vll 

BREATHINGS. 

1st. Full breathing. — Place the arms and hands as required in 
the first movement ; slowly draw the breath until the chest is fully 
expanded ; emit it with the utmost slowness. 

2d. Audible breathing. — Draw in the breath as in full breathing, 
and expire it audibly in a prolonged sound of the letter H. 

3d. Forcible breathing. — Fill the lungs, and then let out the 
breath suddenly and forcibly in the manner of an abrupt and 
whispered cough. 

4th. Sighing. — Fill suddenly the lungs with a full breath, and 
emit it as quickly as possible. 

5th. Gasping. — With a convulsive effort inflate the lungs ; then 
send forth the breath more gently. 

6th. Panting. — Breathe quickly and violently, making the emis- 
sion of the breath loud and forcible. 

THE VOICE. 

For exercises of the voice, and especially in articulation,, the 
table of elementary sounds and the preliminary exercises should.be 
used daily and with a most assiduous practice. 

USE OF THE TABLE. 

1st. In a distinct and moderate utterance of all the sounds. 

2d. In an explosive and forcible manner of making each sound. 

3d. In the application of all the elements of Elocution, while 
producing the different sounds ; as, Emphasis, Inflection, Pitch, 
Force, Tone, (especially the orotund,) Movement, &c. 

A chart of these elementary sounds ought to be hung up in every 
school-room, and made the subject of diligent practice for some time. 

I proceed now to give a brief exposition of the principles of 
Elocution. I have purposely dwelt but little on this part, because 
I designed this book more as a manual of exercises, than as an 
elaborate treatise on the subject; and experience has taught me 
that multiplying rules and technical directions in an art that depends 
so much upon instinct, and nature brought into play by example, has 
the effect of "killing the spirit in the letter." 



CONTENTS. 



PRELIMINARIES. 

PAGE. 

Articulation , 15 

Accent 24 

Pronunciation 26 

Expression 27 

Gesture 3' 

EARNEST DECLAMATION. 

Character of True Eloquence Webster. 41 

Phillips on the Policy of England 42 

Ireland Grattan. 43 

Washington a Man of Genius E. P. Whipple. 44 

Chalmers on War 45 

The Famine in Ireland S. & Prentiss. 46 

Cicero for Milo 47 

Demosthenes to the Athenians 48 

Salathiel to Titus Croly. 49 

Phillips on the Wrongs of Ireland 51 

The Price of Eloquence Chauncey Colton, D. D. 52 

A Political Pause Fox. 53 

Prevalence of War Grimke. 54 

New England and the Union S. S. Prentiss. 55 

Christianity the Basis of Liberty Beecher. 56 

Phillips on Washington 57 

Rolla to the Peruvians Sheridan. 58 

Speech of Belial, dissuading War Milton. 59 

Popular Elections George M'Duffie. 60 

The Mexican War Thomas Corwin. 61 

Phillips on America 62 

Adams and Jefferson Edward Everett. 63 

Moloch's Oration for War Milton. 63 

Cassius instigating Brutus against Caesar Shakspeare. 64 

The Adventurers in the Mayflower Everett. 65 

Hannibal to the Carthaginian Army 67 

The Folly of Disunion Gaston. 67 

Phillips on the Catholic Question 68 

Character of Napoleon Bonaparte Phillips. 69 

A Call to Liberty Warren 70 

Speech of Logan, the Indian Chief Humphrey. 71 

The Wrongs of the Indian Race Story. 72 

Ames' Speech on the British Treaty . . . „ 73 

The Right of England to Tax America Burke. 74 

South Carolina and Massachusetts Webster. 75 

The Same, Continued Webster. 76 

Lord Stanhope on Neutral Rights 76 

Chatham on the American Revolution 77 

The Same, Continued Chatham. 78 

The Irish Disturbance Bill Daniel O'Connell. 79 

British Influence John Randolph. 81 

Webster's Reply to Hayne 82 

viii 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE. 

Reply to Webster, in Senate, 1830 Hayne. 83 

Specimen of the Eloquence of James Otis s 84 

God's Rebuke to Job Bible. 86 

Chatham's Reply to Hillsborough 87 

The Federal Union Webster. 88 

Necessity of a Pure National Morality Beecher. 89 

Self- Vindication Robert Emmet. 90 

Reply to the Duke of Grafton Thurlow. 91 

The Perfect Orator Anonymous. 92 

Anniversary of the Settlement of New England Webster. 92 

Events Great, because of their Results Webster. 93 

Corruption, the Cause of the Fall of States Story. 94 

An Appeal in behalf of American Liberty , . Story. 95 

The Tomahawk submissive to Eloquence Neal. 96 

Ancient and Modern Productions Sumner. 97 

The Murderer's Secret Webster. 98 

The Same, Continued Webster. 99 

French Aggressions Paine. 100 

Supposed Speech of John Adams Webster. 100 

The Same, Continued Webster. 101 

The Miseries of War Chalmers. 103 

Free Discussion Webster. 103 

American Institutions Webster. 104 

Speech of Patrick Henry 105 

The Same, Continued Patrick Henry. 106 

Brutus justifying the Assassination of Caesar Shakspeare. 107 

Hamlet's Address to the Players Shakspeare. 108 

Curran in defense of Rowan 109 

Curran on the Liberty of the Press : . . Ill 

The Same, Continued Curran. 112 

Noble Defense of Irish Character Phillips. .1 13 

Curran on Irish Emancipation 114 

On the Union of Church and State Phillips. 115 

Speech to Mr. Finley Phillips. 116 

Curran against O'Brien 117 

Curran in defense of Orr 119 

The Same, Continued Curran. 120 

The Public Informer Curran. 121 

Appeal to the Jury Curran. 122 

Speech of Mr. Phillips 123 

The Same, Continued Phillips. 124 

The Same, Continued Phillips. 126 

Napoleon Bonaparte Phillips. 128 

The Same, Continued Phillips. 129 

Appeal to the Jury against Blake Phillips. 130 

Appeal to the Jury in behalf of O'Mullen Phillips. 131 

The Same, Continued Phillips. 132 

Appeal to the Jury against Dillon Phillips. 132 

On the Liberty of the Press Phillips. 133 

The Advantages of Education Phillips. 134 

Appeal to the Jury in behalf of Guthrie Phillips. 135 

An Appeal to the Jury Curran. 137 

The Fallen Wife Phillips. 138 

The Same, Continued Phillips. 138 

Curran against Mr. Justice Johnston 140 

The Same, Continued Curran. 141 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The Same, Continued ■. Curran. 142 

Curran against the Marquis of Headford 143 

Noble. Tribute to Lord Avonmore Curran. 144 

Prince Lewis' Answer to the Pope's Legate Shakspeare. 145 

Destiny of the Human Race upon Earth J, C. Zachos. 146 

DECLAMATION. — VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 

Employment of Indians in Civilized Warfare Chatham. 148 

Moloch and Satan, before the Powers of Hell White. 149 

The Same, Continued White. 150 

Marullus to the Mob Shakspeare. 150 

Speech of Raab Kiuprili Coleridge. 151 

The Seminole's Reply G. W. Patten. 152 

Extract from a Speech of Mr. Burke 153 

The Indignation of Constance Shakspeare. 1 54 

The Passing of the Rubicon Knowles. 155 

Las Casas dissuading from Battle Sheridan. 156 

Rienzi's Address to the Romans Miss Mitford. 157 

Speech of Sempronius for War Addison. 158 

Ceesar's Triumphs Knowles. 159 

Reply to the Reflections of Mr. Walpole Pitt. 160 

Grattan's Reply to Mr. Corry 161 

Catiline on hearing his Sentence of Banishment Croly. 162 

From Cicero's Oration against Verres 163 

From Cicero's First Oration against Catiline. 164 

Bolingbroke against Norfolk Shakspeare. 165 

Meeting of Death and Satan Milton. 1 66 

The Quarrel of Achilles and Atrides Pope. 167 

The Same, Continued Pope. 168 

Gloster's Indignation Shakspeare, 169 

Norfolk against Bolingbroke Shakspeare. 170 

Margaret's Curse Shakspeare. 172 

DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

Song, from the Lady of the Lake Scott. 173 

The Death-Fire Ann S. Stephens. 174 

A Fever Dream .John M. Harney. 175 

Bernardine Du Born Sigourney. 176 

The Kaiser W. Howitt. 178 

The American Patriot's Song Anonymous. 179 

The Flight of Xerxes Miss Jewsbury. 179 

The Village Blacksmith Longfellow. 180 

The Last Days of Herculaneum Ather stone. 1 82 

The Prisoner in Herculaneum Atherstone. 183 

The Baron's Last Banquet Albert G. Greene. 184 

Bernardo and King Alphonso Lockhart. 185 

The Battle of Bannockburn Campbell. 187 

Henry V, at the Seige of Harfleur Shakspeare. 188 

Henry V, encouraging his Soldiers Shakspeare. 189 

New England's Dead M'Lellan. 190 

Darkness Byron. 191 

The Gladiator 192 

Science and Religion Mrs. Sigourney. 194 

The O'Kavanagh J. Augustus Shea. 195 

" Look Not Upon the Wine." Willis. 196 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE. 

Alonzo the Brave Lewis. ] 97 

The Owl Anonymous. 199 

The Maid of the Inn Southey. 201 

Arnold Winkelried Montgomery. 204 

The Maniac Lewis. 205 

The Grave of the Greyhound W. Spencer. 207 

The Mummy Smith. 210 

The American Flag Dr. Drake. 211 

Parting of Douglas and Marmion Scott. 213 

The Old Oaken Bucket Woodworth. 215 

Warren's Address Pierpont. 21 6 

Battle of Warsaw Campbell. 216 

Brougham and Canning Anonymous. 217 

Excelsior Longfellow. 2J 8 

War Song of the Greeks, 1822 Campbell. 220 

What is Time ? Marsden. 220 

Boadicea Cowper. 221 

The Bended Bow Mrs. Hemans. 223 

Lochinvar Scott. 224 

The Vision of Belshazzar Byron. 225 

The Sailor-Boy's Dream Dimond. 226 

The Spider and the Bee *. .Anonymous. 228 

Death-Song of Outalissi Campbell. 229 

David's Lament for Absalom Willis. 231 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe. 232 

Absalom's Dream Hillhouse. 233 

The Downfall of Cardinal Wolsey Shakspeare. 234 

The Murdered Traveler Bryant. 235 

The Leper Willis. 236 

The Child's First Grief Mrs. Hemans. 239 

The Gipsey Wanderer Anonymous. 240 

Glenara Campbell. 241 

Casabianca Mrs. Hemans. 242 

The Song of Constance • Scott. 243 

The Destruction of Sennacherib Byron. 244 

The Battle of Busaco Anonymous. 245 

Pulaski's Banner Anonymous. 246 

Ginevra Rogers. 247 

The Vulture of the Alps Anonymous. 248 

The Close of Autumn Bryant. 249 

The Love of Country and of Home Montgomery. 250 

The Hurricane , . .Bryant. 251 

The African Chief Bryant. 252 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill Wordsworth. 254 

What 's Hallowed Ground ? Campbell. 256 

Pleasures of Hope Campbell. 257 

Patriotism Scott. 257 

Greece Byron. 258 

The Isles of Greece Byron. 259 

The Raising of Samuel Byron. 260 

The Serpent of the Still Milford Bard. 261 

Virginius and his Daughter Macaulay. 262 

Horatius at the Bridge Macaulay. 264 

A Roman Battle Macaulay. 267 

The Death of Leonidas Croly. 269 

Song of MacMurrough Scott. 270 



Xll CONTENTS. 

PA.GE. 

Elijah's Interview with God Campbell. 271 

Byron Pollok. 272 

Parrhasuis Willis. 273 

Marco Bozzaris Halleck. 275 

Ode to the Passions Collins. 277 

Alexander's Feast Dryden. 279 

The Fearless De Courcy 283 

The Fireman Anonymous. 286 

Battle of Waterloo Byron. 287 

The Avenging Childe Lockhart. 288 

The Pounder Lockhart. 289 

The Bull Fight of Gazul Lockhart. 290 

Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body Shakspeare. 292 

The Vengeance of Mudara Lockhart. 294 

The Battle in Heaven Milton. 295 

The Same, Continued Milton. 296 

The Same, Continued Milton. 297 

Satan in Hell. ..-. Milton. 299 

The Same, Continued Milton. 300 

The Same, Continued Milton. 302 

Defeat of the Rebel Angels Milton. 303 

Gabriel and Satan Milton. 304 

Passage of the Red Sea Heber. 306 

King Henry to his Son Shakspeare. 307 

Moonlight and Music Shakspeare. 308 

Love's Ecstasy Shakspeare. 309 

Oberon's Vision Shakspeare. 309 

Prospero Shakspeare. 310 

Marius in Prison De Quincy. 311 

SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 

Soliloquy of Manfred Byron. 313 

King Richard's Meditation on Kings Shakspeare. 314 

King Richard's Lament Shakspeare. 315 

Romeo in the Garden Shakspeare. 316 

Clifford's Soliloquy Shakspeare. 316 

Gloster's Soliloquy Shakspeare. 317 

Richard III, before the Battle of Bosworth Shakspeare. 318 

The Guilty Conscience Shakspeare. 319 

Clarence's Dream Shakspeare. 320 

Hotspur's Soliloquy on the Contents of a Letter Shakspeare. 321 

King Edward's Lament over Clarence Shakspeare. 322 

Hamlet's Soliloquy Shakspeare. 323 

Soliloquy of Hamlet's Uncle Shakspeare. 323 

The Dying Horse Blackett. 324 

Antony over the Dead Body of Caesar Shakspeare. 325 

A Soliloquy from Hamlet Shakspeare. 326 

Hamlet on his own Irresolution Shakspeare. 327 

Lady Macbeth's Soliloquy Shakspeare. 329 

Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul Addison. 329 

Lady Randolph's Soliloquy Home. 330 

Othello's Vengeful Sorrow Shakspeare. 331 

Macbeth meditating the murder of Duncan Shakspeare. 332 

A Soliloquy of Macbeth Shakspeare. 332 

Shylock's Soliloquy and Address Shakspeare. 333 

Falstaff on Sack Shakspeare. 334 



CONTENTS. X1U 

PAGE. 

^oliloquy on Character Shakspeare. 335 

Soliloquy on a Dog Shakspeare. 335 

Falstaff's Description of his Soldiers Shakspeare. 336 

Soliloquy of Dick, the Apprentice 337 

WIT — HUMO R— BURLESQUE. 

The Rhyming Apothecary Colman. 338 

One Good Turn Deserves Another Mrs. Gilman. 339 

Old Grimes Albert G. Greene. 340 

The Removal Anonymous. 341 

History of John Day Hood. 342 

The Alarmed Skipper J.T. Field. 344 

The Seven Ages of Man Shakspeare. 345 

The Three Black Crows Byrom. 346 

The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger Anonymous. 347 

Misconception Anonymous. 348 

The Apple-Dumplings and George III Wolcott. 349 

The Directing Post Anonymous. 350 

The Atheist and Acorn Anonymous. 351 

The Ass and the Nightingale Kriler. 351 

The Young Fly and the Old Spider Wolcott. 352 

Spectacles, or Helps to Read Byrom. 353 

Lodgings for Single Gentlemen Colman. 354 

The Fat Actor and the Rustic 356 

Logic Anony?nous. 357 

Apology for the Pig Southey. 358 

The Duel Hood. 359 

Frank Hayman Taylor. 361 

Christmas Times 362 

A Grecian Fable Foote. 364 

The Country Bumpkin and Razor Seller Wolcott. 365 

Queen Mab Shakspeare. 366 

The Rich Man and the Poor Man Khemnitzer. 367 

The Frost Hannah F. Gould. 368 

The Three Warnings Mrs. Thrale. 369 

The Music Crier Hood. 371 

The Magpie, or Bad Company Anonymous. 375 

Ode to my Boy, aged three years Hood. 378 

The Old Hat 379 

The Whiskers Woodworth. 381 

A Very Poor Horse Shakspeare. 383 

Falstaff's Moral Lecture Shakspeare. 384 

DIALOGUES— SERIOUS AND COMIC. 

The Triumph of Julius Caesar Shakspeare. 385 

Cassius instigating Brutus against Cessar Shakspeare. 387 

The Offering of the Crown to Csesar Shakspeare. 390 

The Conspiracy Shakspeare. 394 

The Shipwrecked Prince Shakspeare. 398 

The Greeks before Troy Shakspeare. 401 

Achilles' Message , Shakspeare. 404 

Banishment of the Duke of Kent Shakspeare. 406 

The Fool's Remonstrance Shakspeare. 407 

The Loyal Follower Shakspeare. 409 

The Anger of Kent Shakspeare. 410 



XIV CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The Usurpation of Bolingbroke Shakspeare. 413 

Rebellion of Hotspur, Mortimer, and Glendower Shakspeare. 417 

The Welshman and his Leek Shakspeare. 420 

The Disguised King Shakspeare. 422 

The Feud of the Roses Shakspeare. 424 

The Quarrel of Gloster and Winchester Shakspeare. 427 

The Murder of Prince Arthur Shakspeare. 429 

The Enchanter and his Familiar Spirit Shakspeare. 432 

The Punning Messenger Shakspeare. 436 

Indications of being in Love Shakspeare. 437 

Will it be a Match Shakspeare. 439 

A Woman's Virtues and Faults Shakspeare. 441 

The Ludicrous Lover Shakspeare. 443 

The Conceited Steward Shakspeare. 444 

The Fool in Office Shakspeare. 447 

Dogberry's Charge Shakspeare. 449 

The Amateur Tragedians Shakspeare. 45 1 

Father's Wit and Mother's Tongue Shakspeare. 453 

The Usurer's Bond Shakspeare. 456 

The Mild Threat Shakspeare. 459 

The Quarrel on the Seventh Cause Shakspeare. 460 

An Answer to Fit any Question Shakspeare. 461 

Iago inciting Othello to Jealousy Shakspeare. 463 

The Choleric Prince Shakspeare. 468 

The Two Murderers Shakspeare. 469 

The Grief of Macduff .Shakspeare. 470 

The Danish Sentinels Shakspeare. 473 

The Unquiet Spirit Shakspeare. 477 

Hamlet's Interview with his Father's Spirit Shakspeare. 480 

The Indignation of Hamlet Shakspeare. 482 

The Burial of Ophelia Shakspeare. 485 

The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius. Shakspeare. 486 

Prince Arthur of Bretagne Shakspeare. 489 

Falstaff 's Valor Shakspeare. 493 

The Miser Fielding. 496 

The Two Robbers Dr. Aiken. 497 

The Constable De Bourbon Kemble. 499 

The Lost Maiden Holcraft. 503 

The Hakon Jarl Anonymous. 504 

The Saracen Brothers Anonymous. 506 

How to tell Bad News Anonymous. 511 

Indigestion Anonymous. 512 

The Valorous Apothecary Colman. 514 

The Embryo Lawyer , Allingham. 517 

The Irish Servant* Oulton. 520 

The Stygian Ferry 523 

The Prophet of Mecca Miller. 526 

The Dramatist Sheridan. 529 

The Swiss Patriot Knowles. 532 

The King-Maker Franklin. 546 

The Colonists L. Aiken. 549 

The Churchyard Karamsin. 551 



ARTICULATION. 



15 



ARTICULATION. 



ELEMENTARY SOUNDS. 

There are forty-one elementary sounds in the English lan- 
guage, which may be thus arranged according to three principles 
of classification : 

1. According to the organs with which they are chiefly 
formed : Vocal, Labial, Linguo-Dental, Linguo-Palatal, and 
Guttural. 

2. According to the nature of the sound : Tonic, Subtonic, 
and Atonic. 

3. According to the manner of expressing the sound : 
Checked, Vanishing, Abrupt, Smooth, Liquid, Resonant, 
Aspirate, Ambiguous. 

These are presented in one view in the following table : 

THE ELEMENTARY SOUNDS (41) 

16 VOCAL TONICS. 



8 Checked. 








8 Prolonged and Vanishing. 


1. I as 


in It. 






1. I 


as in 


. Pique. 


2. E 


: Bet. 






2. E 


tt 


Ere. 


3. A 


' At. 






3. A 


<< 


Rare. 


4. A (final) ' 


< Era. 






4. A 


n 


Ear. 


5. < 


< Odd. 






5. 


a 


Or. 


6. U 


< Up. 






6. U 


a 


Cur. 


7. (final) < 


' Hero. 






7. 


<t 


Oar. 


8. U ' 


< Put. 






8. U 


a 


Rule. 


25 


i ATONICS 


AND 


SUBTONICS, 






7 


Labials. 6 Linguo-Dental. 8 Linguo-Palatal. 4 Guttural. 


8 Ab ™P* | |bton. 


l.P. 1. 

2. B. 2. 


T. 

D. 




1. 

2. 


Ch. 
J. 


l.K. 

2. G. 


8 Smooth j ^™ on 


3. F. 3. 

4. V. 5. 


Th. 

Th. 


4. 

6. 


S. 3. 
Z. 4. 


Sh. 
Zh. 




2 Liquid Subton. 








5. 


L. 6. 


R. 


3 Resonant Subton. 


5. M. 






7. 


1ST. 


s.m. 
4. a 


2 Aspirate Aton. 


6. Wh. 










2 Ambiguous Subt. 


7. W. 






8. 


Y. 





MOST COMMON COMPOUND VOCALS. 

1. Ai as in Aim. 5. Oi as in Oil. 

2. Ie " Pie. 6. Oi " Going. 

3. Ou « Thou. 7. Ui '< Ruin. 

4. Ow " Blow. 8. Ue " Fluent. 



16 ARTICULATION. 



OF THE LETTERS OR SIGNS OF SOUNDS. 

The irregularity and the inadequacy of the signs of sound 
used in the language, present great difficulties in learning to 
read and write it correctly. 

It is an obstacle likewise in acquiring a correct articulation ; 
for in this the proper significance of every letter or sign of sound 
that enters into the word should be distinctly apprehended. 
But this is not always easy in the present state of Orthoepy. 

I proceed, therefore, to such an analysis of the use of the 
present signs of the elementary sounds in the language, as may 
assist in acquiring a correct articulation. 

There are forty-one elementary sounds, and only twenty-six 
letters or signs of sounds ; consequently there is a deficiency of 
fifteen signs, which has to be made up by making the same sign 
represent several different sounds ; and for some sounds there is 
no especial letter, but only some combination of letters. 



Note. — Indeed the greatness of the difficulty that attends this 
subject, can only be appreciated by those who have directed to it a 
special attention. The painful toil and trouble of our childhood is 
forgotten in the facility which long drilling and constant repetition 
have given to our maturer years. Yet the first three or four years 
of instruction are chiefly spent in teaching children the proper 
significance and use of those signs of sound. When we consider 
that all this labor is owing to irregularities that can be swept away 
in one blow by the adoption of one simple law, viz : that of having 
a single sign for each elementary sound, it seems a wonder that 
intelligent beings should submit to such a monstrous perversion of 
human labor. 

It is a subject I cannot here enter upon; but the reformation 
proposed in this respect demands the earnest attention and practical 
co-operation of every one interested in the cause of education. 
What shall we make of a system of representative signs, in view of 
anything rational or convenient, which leaves one a choice of eleven 
thousand six hundred and twenty-eight different ways of spelling 
the same word ! 

To make my assertion good, I will take the word Constantinople. 
There are thirteen simple sounds in it, not counting the final e which 
is silent. A glance at the following analysis with respect to the 
signs of sounds, will show that the analogy of common usage will 
justify one in representing several of these sounds by more than one 
sign, making in all nineteen different signs for thirteen sounds. 
These nineteen signs, according to the Algebraic Theory of Combi- 
nations, can be used to spell the word in eleven thousand six hun- 
dred and twenty-eight different ways ! And this, not throwing in 



ARTICULATION. 1 7 

As I propose to give the student a clear idea of each element- 
ary sound, and the different ways of marking it, I shall treat 
of each separately. But I must premise that accurate articu- 
lation can only be learned from a teacher who is versed in the 
same ; and such remarks as can be made in a book can only 
refer the intelligent pupil to his consciousness, and put him upon 
the way merely of verifying the true sounds. 

8 Vocal Tonics . Checked (in the sound.) 
(See the Table.) 

These are called vocal, because the sound comes from the 
vocal organs proper, unmodified by the action of the tongue, 
teeth, and palate, as other sounds, but only by the shape which 
the cavity of the mouth assumes when they are sent forth. 
They are called tonics, because they are the proper tones or 
musical sounds in language. They are called checked in the 
sound ; that is, there is a positive effort made by the organs, in 
which the sound is checked, stopped, or snatched up abruptly 
when it is fully formed. This distinguishes them from another 
class of sounds radically the same as these, but differing in the 
manner in which the sound is completed. These eight sounds 
form a natural ascending and descending scale analogous to the 
musical scale, in which the volume of sound enlarges up to the 
fifth sound, then diminishes again, but not in the same manner. 

The volume of sound is determined by the cavity of the 
mouth, which is most enlarged and approaches most to a circle 
in the fourth sound ; then contracts to form the sounds before 
and after ; but this contraction is different for the sounds on the 
right from those on the left of the fourth sound. Thus, taking 
the circle to represent the fourth sound, then a series of ellipses 
will represent the other sounds ; thus : 

any silent letters, in which words abound, and which might swell the 
present calculation to over a million 1 ! 

As a curiosity, one of these combinations is given — Kancdendo- 
naple — justified by the analogy of the sound of k in kick, a in all, c 
in city, d in stopped, e in there, o in zoomen, a in icas. Not only is 
there scarcely a letter in the language that represents one invariable 
sound, but most of them stand for so many different sounds as to 
place upon the present twenty-six letters the labor of representing 
one hundred sounds ! besides, twelve of these are often silent, and 
have no significance in combination. 

Such is this embroglio and sense-confounding system of repre- 
sentative signs ! Nothing but a dry routine, a constant drilling, and 
a stultifying repetition, can ever make a tolerable speller. 



18 ARTICULATION. 

I. & A. A. 0. U. 0. U. 

It. Met. At. Era. Odd. Up. Open. Put. 



<o o O 




6 



These represent severally the cavities of the mouth in forming 
the sounds. 

It is in representing this class of sounds chiefly that the irre- 
gularities of the present system of signs appear most conspicuous. 

In treating of the sounds, the order of the table is observed. 
All the letters that are ever used to represent each sound are 
given as appropriate signs of the sound. 

ILLUSTRATIONS OP THE VOCAL TONICS— CHECKED. 
FIRST SOUND. 

I as in It. Ey as in Lackey. 

Ee " Been. Y " Hymn, Lyric. 

U " Busy. Ei " Foreign. 

" Women. Ui " Guilt. 

E " Pretty. Ie " Sieve. 

Ea as in Guinea. 

SECOND SOUND. 

E as in Met. Ea as in Dead, Head. 

A " Any, Many. Ai " Said. 

U " Bury. Ay " Sunday, Monday. 

Eo as in Leopard, Jeopardy. 

THIRD SOUND. 

A as in Ask, Acute, Abode. Ai as in Plaid. 

Au as in Laugh. 

FOURTH SOUND. 

A (final or unaccented) as in Boa, Coma, Stigma, Era, Mama. 

N. B. — A feeble manner of giving this sound often confounds it 
with the sixth sound of the Table, or with the first and lightest 
sound of R. 

FIFTH S OUND. 

as in Odd, On, Rob, Sob. A as in Wad, Was. 



ARTICULATION. 1 9 

SIXTH SOUND. 



U as in Up, Bud, Cup, Fun. Io as in Cushion, Motion. 
Ou " Rough. " Done, Colonel. 

Eo " Surgeon. Oo " Blood. 



SEVENTH SOUND 



(final or before an Abrupt Atonic) as in Hero, Bravo, Plato, 
Cocoa, Open, Opal, Cargo, Sago, Also, Ditto, Calico. 



EIGHTH SOUND. 



U as in Put. Oo as in Good, Book. 

O " Wolf. Ui " Suit. 

Ou as in Would, Could. 

8 Vo cal To nics . — Vanishing (in the sound.) 

This class of vocal tonics is radically the same as the checked ; 
they differ merely in having a secondary and more feeble tone 
of the same kind as the first, which may be called the vanishing 
tone. It is a prolongation of the radical tone, but of a more 
evanescent and lighter character, into which the radical tone 
expires. 

It will be observed by this, that the distinction between the 
checked and vanishing sounds, is not that of long and short. 
The checked are always short, and the vanishing are relatively 
longer ; but when either come under the influence of accent and 
expression, this distinction is confounded and almost lost. 

The checked and vanishing tonics have generally the same 
representative signs, and correspond to each other. 

N. B. — In every syllable where there is a vanishing sound, there 
are always two tonic signs, or an R, except in some monosyllables. 

The tonic signs are not always in juxta-position, as in Theme. 
The first of these represents the radical, and the second the vanish- 
ing sound. The same effect is produced by an R, which lengthens 
the preceding tonic without losing its own specific sound. 

ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE VOCAL TONICS — VANISHING. 
FIRST SOUND. 

E as in Be, Me, He, Theme. I as in Pique, Machine. 

Ee " Eel, Feel, Seen. Eo " Feof. 

Ie " Shield, Field. Ui " Build. 

Ea " Bean, Sea, Eager. Uay " Quay. 



20 ARTICULATION. 

SECOND SOUND. 

E as in Where, There, Ere. Ei as in Heir. 

THIRD SOUND. 

A as in Care, Rare. Ai as in Hair, Air. 

FOURTH SOUND. 

A as in Father, Arm, Balm. Ea as in Heart. 

Ua as in Guard. 

FIFTH SOUND. 

A as in All, Ball, Halt. Ou as in Brought, Fought. 

Au " Aught. " For, Nor. 

Aw " Law. Oa " Broad. 

SIXTH SOUND. 

Er as in Err, Herb, Therefore. Yr as in Myrrh. 

Ear " Earth, Hearth. Ur " Curb, Furl. 

Ir " Firm, Gird, Mirth. Or " World. 

Uer as in Conquer. 

N. B. — The presence of the R seems essential to this vanishing 
tonic, but does not lose its own peculiar sound. 

SEVENTH SOUND. 

Ou as in Pour, Four. Oa as in Oar, Hoar. 

Oo " Door. " Core, Sore. 

I have hesitated somewhat about this, and its corresponding 
checked sound in the Table, (see the Table of Elementary 
Sounds, ) as not being distinctly recognized in any analysis of 
the elementary sounds that I have met with. But I have not 
been able to reject them from the analysis that I have made of 
these sounds, and I think they will approve themselves to most 
ears who have attended to the sounds made in correct articulation. 

There is a tendency in this sound, except, I think, before the 
letter R, to vanish in the eighth sound of the Vocal Tonics, 
making a dipthong, as in Ode, Old, Soul, Beau, Foe, Dough, 
Bow, &c. 

EIGHTH SOUND. 

O as in Move, To, Do. Ue as in True, Sue, Due. 

Oo " Ooze, Loose, Noose. IT " Rule, Fuse, Tube. 
Ew " Crew, Drew, New. Oe " Shoe. 
Ui " Cruise, Bruise. Ui " Juice, 

leu as in Lieu, Purlieu. 



ARTICULATION. 21 

Dipthongs or Compound Vocals. 

A dipthong consists of two tonic sounds following in succes- 
sion, and coalescing more or less; each preserves its separate 
sound. 

The second sound, however, has generally the character of a 
vanishing sound. 

In the following table of dipthongs, the numbers indicate 
which of the tonics, in the order of the table of elementary 
sounds, make up each dipthong. 

l.=l and 2. Ee. Seest, Freest. 

2.=1 and 3. Ea, la. Examples : Reaction, Beatitude, Piazza. 

3.=1 and 7. Eo. Ex.: Creole, Seraglio. 

4.=1 and 8. Ew, Ue, Ui, Eau, lew, U. Ex.: Few, View, 
Mute, Dew, Beauty, Clew. The sound of Y as a subtonic is 
here often touched in connecting the first and second sound of 
this dipthong. 

5. =2 and 1. A, Ai, Ay, Ey, Ei, Ea. Ex.: Ale, Aim, Lay, 
Prey, Neigh, Yea, May. 

6. =4 and 1. I, Ai, Ey, Uy, Ie, Y, Ey. Ex.: I, My, Eye, 
Naivete, Buy, Pie, Guile, Ley. 

7.=4 and 8. Ou, Ow. Ex.: Thou, Loud, Now, Cow, Stout. 

8. = 5 and 1. Oi and Oy. Ex.: Oil, Void, Coy, Joy, Boy. 

9. =7 and 1. Oi, Owi, Ewi. Ex.: Going, Throwing, Sewing. 

10.=7 and 2. Oe, Owe. Ex.: Poet, Lowell, Coexist. 

11. =7 and 8. Ow, Oe, Ou, 0, Eau, Oa, Ew. Ex.: Though, 
Blow, Dough, Foe, Ode, Old, Beau, Sew, So, No, Sow. 

12. =8 and 1. Oi, Ui, Ooi. Ex.: Doing, Ruin, Cooing. 

13. =8 and 2. Ue, Ua, Ewa. Ex.: Truant, Fluent, Renewal. 

14. = 8 and 3. Ua, Wa. Ex.: Quack, Thwack. 

15. = 8 and 7. Uo. Ex.: Quote. 

Atonies and Suh tonics . 

The chief difficulties of correct and forcible articulation are 
connected with the enunciation of this class of sounds. Indeed, 
it has been said, " Take care of your consonants, and the vowels 
will take care of themselves." Too much attention, therefore, 
cannot be paid to the clear apprehension and familiar practice 
of this class of elementary sounds. All the symbols used to 
mark the sound are given. 



22 ARTICULATION. 

7 Labial Sounds. 

The Labial Sounds are so called, because the sound or breath, 
in passing from the mouth, is chiefly modified by the position 
and action of the lips. In describing them, the same order is 
observed as in the Table. 

1. P. An atonic abrupt sound. Atonic, because it has no 
tone or musical sound ; but is merely a strong expulsion of the 
breath in a whisper. Abrupt, because in the manner of forming 
it, the breath is suddenly or abruptly forced through the lips. 
Ex.: Pip, Pulp, Pope, Paper, Pop, Palpable, Pauper, Papa. 

P is sometimes silent. Ex.: Psalm, Psalter, Receipt. 

2. B. A subtonic abrupt sound. Subtonic, because while it 
has an audible sound it does not amount to a tone or a musical 
sound, but to a sort of murmur. Ex.: Babe, Bulb, Barb, Blab, 
Bob, Bib, Bible, Bibber. 

B is sometimes silent. Ex.: Debt, Dumb, Thumb, Subtle. 

3. F, Gh, Ph. An atonic smooth sound. Smooth, because 
the sound or breath is allowed to pass with less resistance and 
in a more gentle manner than in most of the atonic and subtonic 
sounds. Ex.: Fife, Fade, Phosphorescent, Fearful, Phantom, 
Rough, Laugh, Philosopher, Enough, Tough. 

Gh and Ph are sometimes silent. Ex.: Dough, Through, 
Plough, Phthisic, Phthisis. 

4. V. A smooth subtonic sound. Ex.: Vivid, Vivacious, 
Velvet, Vie, Vain, Voice. 

5. M. A resonant subtonic. Resonant, a peculiar ringing 
sound that is obtained by forcing the sound through the nose. 
Ex.: Man, Mummy, Mimic, Mama, Moon, Moment, Mammoth. 

6. Wh. An aspirate atonic. Aspirated, by the forcible man- 
ner in which the breath is forced through the lips when in the 
attitude of forming the sound. Ex.: When, Wheel, Whether, 
What, Whittle, White. 

7. W. An ambiguous subtonic. Ambiguous, — it approaches 
very near to the nature of a vocal tonic ; but as it is never 
sounded by itself, independent of some tonic sound, it seems 
more proper to class it with the subtonics. Ex.: Woe, Wed, 
Weak, Wood, Well, Wayward, We, Way. 

W is sometimes silent. Ex.: Wrong, Write, Wrestle, Wreck. 

6 Linguo- Dental Sounds. 

1. T or D (final). An abrupt atonic. Ex.: Tart, Trout, 
Tint, Tactics, Tittle-tattle, Titular, Rushed, Helped, Stopped. 



ARTICULATION. 23 

T is sometimes silent. Ex.: Ragout, Eclat, Debut. 

2. D. An abrupt subtonic. Ex.: Dead, Dared, Did, Deed, 
Dandy, Diddle, Deduce, Odd, Duds. 

D silent. Ex.: Wednesday, Handkerchief. 

3. Th. Atonic — smooth. Ex.: Thin, Theme, Thorn, Lath, 
Moth, Bath, Think, Threat. 

4. S, C. A smooth atonic. Ex.: Sauce, Cease, Secede, 
Kiss, Succeed, Seduce, Sense, Saucy, Sluice. 

N. B. — C has this sound only before E, I, Y. 

5. Th. A smooth subtonic. Ex.: Thither, That, Thou, 
They, Whither, Then, This, Those. 

6. Z, S, X, C. A smooth subtonic. Ex.: Zeal, Buzz, Ease, 
Rose, Is, Discern, Diseases, Xenophon, Suffice, Sacrifice. 

8 Linguo-P alatal Sounds. 

The Linguo-Palatal Sounds are those which, in passing out of 
the mouth, are modified by the action of the tongue upon the 
palate. 

1. Ch, Teh. An abrupt atonic sound. Ex.: Church, Check, 
Witch, Rich, Stretch, Catch, Chatter. 

2. J, G. An abrupt subtonic. Ex.: Judge, Gem, Ginger, 
Just, Jacob, Genus, George. 

3. Sh, S, T, C. A smooth atonic. Ex.: Shame, Shun, She, 
Nation, Nuptial, Martial, Ocean, Social, Special, Sure, Sugar. 

4. Z, S. A smooth subtonic. Ex.: Azure, Closure, Hosier, 
Pleasure, Grazier, Treasure. 

5. L. A liquid subtonic. Liquid — a peculiar flowing free- 
dom of sound readily coalescing with the tonic sounds. Ex.: 
Loll, Jill, Lily, Lollard, Likely, Lovely, Lowly, Lonely, Lullaby. 

L is sometimes silent. Ex.: Alms, Balm, Calf, Half, Chalk. 

6. R. A liquid subtonic. This sound is given with three 
degrees of intensity. In the first, the tongue is held close to 
the palate without touching it, and the sound is emitted similar 
to a tonic, but with less openness and freedom. It is thus 
sounded when it follows a tonic in the same syllable. In the 
second, the tongue (not the tip) just touches the palate. This 
sound is given to R before a tonic. In the third, the tip of the 
tongue is made rapidly to vibrate against the palate. This is 
employed for great emphasis. Ex.: Are, More, Far, Car, Roll, 
Rare, Trembling, Trill. 

7. 1ST. A nasal subtonic. Ex.: Nine, None, New, Ninny. 
N silent. Ex.: Hymn, Kiln, Column, Autumn. 



24 ARTICULATION. 

8. Y. An ambiguous subtonic. Ambiguous, both because 
its subtonic approaches very near to a tonic sound, and often the 
letter is a pure tonic character. 

Y as a subtonic. Ex.: Ye, Yell, Yarn, You, Youth. 

Y as a tonic. Ex.: Eye, By, Fry, Lily. 

Y silent. Ex.: Key, Sunday, Monday, &c. 

4 Guttural Sounds. 

The Guttural Sounds are those which, in passing through the 
throat, are there modified by the action of the back part of the 
tongue against the rear-palate. 

1. K, C, Q. An abrupt atonic. Ex.: Kick, Chord, Quick, 
Cocoa, Cook, Quote. 

N. B. — C has this sound before A, O, U. 
Q, is always followed by U. 

K is sometimes silent. Ex.: Knife, Knight, Knell, Knob. 

2. G. An abrupt subtonic. Ex.: Gig, Gay, Rug, Egg, Gag, 
Giggle. 

G silent. Ex.: Sign, Deign, Gnash, Gnat, Phlegm. 

3. jNg, 1ST. A nasal subtonic. Ex.: Bringing, Ringing, 
Singing, Gingham, Ink, Bank, Drink, Wink. 

4. H. An aspirate atonic. Ex.: Hate, Ha! Ha! Hall, Hot. 
H silent. Ex.: Heir, Honest, Humble, Hour, Honor. 

EXERCISES IN ARTICULATION. 
SUBTONIC COMBINATIONS. (FOR PRACTICE.) 

1. Bl, dl, gl, rl, vl, zl, lb, Id, lm, In. — Able, handle, glow, 
hurl, driv'l, muzz'l, bulb, fold, film, fall'n. 

2. Br, dr, gr, rb, rd, rg, rm, rn. — Brand, draw, grave, barb, 
lard, barge, arm, bard. 

3. Bz, dz, gz, thz, lz, mz, nz, rz, vz. — Robes, deeds, begs, 
breathes, falls, tombs, fans, wars, lives. 

4. Gd, jd, Id, md, nd, ngd, bid, did, gld, rid, zld. — Begg'd, 
wedg'd, fold, doom'd, land, hang'd, hobbl'd, addl'd, haggl'd, 
snarl' d, muzzl'd. 

5. Lbd, rbd, lmd, mid, dnd, rnd, snd, rvd. — Bulb'd, barb'd, 
film'd, arm'd, madd'n'd, burn'd, reas'n'd, carv'd. 

6. Rbz, rdz, rmz, rnz, roz, dnz, zmz, znz. — Orbs, barbs, 
arms, barns, carves, madd'ns, spasms, pris'ms. 

7. Lbz, loz, lmz, ldz, biz, dlz, glz, rlz, viz, zlz. — Bulbs, 
elves, films, folds, cables, addles, mangles, hurls, driv'ls, muz- 
zles. 



ACCENT. 25 

ATONIC COMBINATION. 

1 . Fs, ks, ps, ts, sk, sp, st. — Cliffs, rocks, caps, bats, mask, 
spend, stone. 

2. Fth, pth, fths, pths, fts, pts, sps, sts. — Fifth, depth, fifths, 
depths, wafts, crypts, clasps, rests. 

3. Ft, kt, pt, cht, skt, spt, fst, pst. — Oft, sack'd, crept, 
push'd, fetch'd, mask'd, clasp'd, laugh'st, lap'st. 

SUBTONIC AND ATONIC COMBINATIONS. 

1. Fl, kl, pi, si, tl, lsh, 1th, Ik, lp, Is, It —Fling, cling, 
plume, slay, title, filch, health, milk, help, false, halt. 

2. Fr, kr, pr, tr, rf, rch, rk, rp, rs, rt. — From, crown, prance, 
trade, turf, search, hark, harp, hearse, cart. 

3. Mf, mp, mt, ngk, nch, nt, kn, sn, vn. — Nymph, hemp, 
tempt, ink, linch, meant, tak'n, snow, ev'n. 

4. Knd, pnd, pld, sld, tld, 1ft, lkt, lpt. — Beck'n'd, op'n'd, 
rippl'd, nestl'd, titl'd, delft, milk'd, help'd. 

5. Rth, rsh, rft, rkt, rnt, rpt, sht, skt. — North, marsh, 
wharf'd, work'd burnt, harp'd, smash'd, mask'd. 

6. Lfs, nfs, Iks, Its, nts, ngths, lths. — Gulfs, nymphs, milks, 
halts, wants, lengths, healths, 

7. Dst, gst, fst, 1st, mst, nst, pst, rst. — Did'st, begg'st 
laugh'st, fall'st, comb'st, winc'd, rapp'st, burst. 

8. Blst, dlst, fist, gist, klst, plst, rlst, tlst, zlst. — Troubl'st, 
handl'st, trifl'st, mangl'st, wrinkl'st, help'st, hurl'st, settl'st, 
muzzl'st. 

9. Bdst, gdst, ldst, ndst, rdst, vdst, rlst, ntst, — Prob'dst, 
begg'dst, hurl'dst, send'st, liv'dst, hurl'st, want'st. 

10. Rbst, rmst, dnst, knst, rnst, rsvt, znst. — Barb'st, warm'st, 
hard'n'st, black'n'st, burn'st, curv'st, impris'n'st. 

11. Bldst, didst, gldst, kldst, rldst, tldst, vldst. — Troubl'dst, 
fondl'dst, mangl'dst, wrinkl'dst, hurl'dst, sell'dst, drivl'dst. 

12. Lmdst, rmdst, rndst, dndst, kndst, zndst. — Whelm'dst, 
arm'dst, burn'dst, hard'n'dst, impris'n'dst. 



ACCENT 



Accent is a stronger impulse of the voice laid on a particular 
sylable. Every word has its accent, but this is never marked 
in writing, nor is there any system of rules adequate to guiding 
the student in placing the accent correctly. This is another 
defect in our system of notation, which can only be supplied by 
oral instruction. The importance of accent however, will appear 



26 PRONUNCIATION. 

from the fact that it is sometimes the only means of distinguish- 
ing the meaning of the word. 

Ex. — I present you with a present. 

I refuse the refuse. 

They concert their plan in concert. 

I did recdrd the record. 

Sometimes the ordinary accent of the word is changed by a 
contrast in sense. 

Ex. — He must increase but I must decrease. 

I did not say to export but to import. 

He that descended is the same as he that Ascended. 



PRONUNCIATION. 

A correct pronunciation includes the right method of articu- 
lating the elements of words and placing the proper accent. 

A good pronunciation is the result merely of a patient and 
studious mechanical practice of the elements, and can be learned 
by any one who will subject himself to the necessary labor. 

But it is absolutely essential to the good reader and speaker ; 
for without it, all other virtues and powers of expression are 
covered up under this defect. 

The chief difficulty consists in the articulation. The follow- 
ing examples are intended to bring out the utmost force of 
articulation and pronunciation, and must frequently be resorted 
to by the student for practice. 

EXERCISES. 

He is content in either place. 
He is content in neither place. 

They wandered weary over wastes and deserts. 
They wandered weary over waste, sand, deserts. 

I saw the prints, without emotion. 
I saw the Prince, without emotion. 

Whoever heard of such an ocean ? 
Whoever heard of such a notion ? 

That last still night. 
That lasts till night. 

His cry moved me. 
His crime moved me. 



EXPRESSION. 27 

He could pay nobody. 
He could pain nobody. 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The lines too labor, and the words move slow. 

Thou laid'st down and slept'st. 

I saw a saw, saw six sleek, slim, saplings. 

The lonely lion lamely limped along the lane. 

He was o'erwhelm'd with whirlwinds wild. 

With cruel crutch, he cracked my crown. 

With horrid howls, he heaved the heavens above. 

Round the rough rocks the ragged rascal ran. 

Only think, I thrust three thousand thistles through the 
thick of my thumb. 

And there the finest streams through tangled forests stray. 

The masts stood steadfast through the severest storm. 

As thou found'st, so thou keep'st me. 

The wolf's long howl on Ululaska's shore. 

.Each on his rock transfixed, the sport of racking whirlwinds. 

He authoritatively and peremptorily forbade all intercom- 
munication between those extraordinarily intractable 
individuals. 

N. B. — I would impress it especially upon the teacher, that the 
best way to secure a distinct and forceable articulation is to give 
the pupil a daily exercise of spelling by sound, that is, enunciating 
every elementary sound in a word by itself, and then the word as a 
whole. 



OF EXPRESSION. 

Articulation and Pronunciation treat of the mechanical and 
material agencies of Elocution ; the soul lies in expression. Of 
this we shall treat under seven particulars — Emphasis, Inflexion, 
Pitch, Force, Tone, Movement, and Pause. 

The mechanical part of Elocution, consisting in the proper 
use and discipline of the material organs for the pronunciation 
of articulate sounds, requires mere force of will and patient 
practice ; it is an admirable discipline for both. 

The more elevated and moral part of Elocution — that eva- 
nescent and indescribable, but most magic power of expression, 



28 EXPRESSION. 

requires the high cultivation of feeling, the imagination, and 
tender and powerful sympathies of the soul. 

It is thus that Elocution becomes a noble means of discipline 
and cultivation for the whole man. The secret here is to sur- 
render the mind wholly to the impulse of nature, forgetful 
of self in the feeling and thought of the moment, and truly 
reflecting in the attitude and gesture, as in a glass, the sentiment 
and meaning of the language. 

But here the student of oratory must, for the most part, 
"minister unto himself;" the teacher can do little else than 
criticise, and direct him generally in nature's path. 

I proceed to give a brief analysis of each of the elements of 
expression. 

EMPHASIS. 

Emphasis is a certain force of utterance expended upon a 
single word, to call attention thereto, and mark special 
signiflcancy. 

It is indefinite in its nature and amount, varying according to 
the strength of signiflcancy and the character of the subject ; 
but for the sake of clearness we shall mark three degrees, and 
indicate the lowest by italics, the next by small capitals, and 
the highest by LARGE CAPITALS. 

The signiflcancy and sense of reading depends chiefly upon 
the emphasis. Take, for instance, the simple phrase, Will you 
go to town to-morrow ? You may vary the sense in six different 
ways by emphasis, thus : 

1. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. Will you or not ? 

2. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. Will you or somebody else ? 

3. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. Will you go or stay ? 

4. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. Will you go to or from ? 

5. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. To town or somewhere else ? 

6. Will you go to town to-morrow ? 

i. e. To-morrow or next day ? 

Emphasis will infallibly result in reading or speaking, if there 
is a clear apprehension of the sense of what is read or spoken, 
and a strong desire to produce an impression on the hearer : 
hence the rule that will supersede all other rules in the attain- 



EXPRESSION. 29 

ment of this, as well as all other points of expression, is this — 
strive ever for concentration of thought and lively feelings in 
reading or in speaking. This is the beginning and the end of 
all instruction. 

Let any child that can read take up a book that it can feel 
and understand, and it neither will nor can avoid putting 
emphasis on words, according to its interest in, and apprehen- 
sion of, the subject matter. 

The only way that a teacher can promote these in a pupil 
is by example. 

He must be a good reader and speaker himself, else it is 
"the blind leading the blind." 

All emphasis is one of three kinds — Demonstrative, Antithetic, 
and Cumulative. 

The first points the attention to some particular thought in 
preference to all others. 

The second points out a distinction, opposition or antithesis 
between two thoughts. 

The third raises the attention to the highest pitch by accumu- 
lating power and significancy on a single word by repetition. 

EXAMPLES IN DEMONSTRATIVE EMPHASIS. 

Let kings that fear forgive ; blows and revenge for me. 

'Twas base and poor ; unworthy of a man 

To forge a scroll, so villainous and loose. 
But I did not call him to order, why ? because the limited 
talents of some, render it impossible for them to be 
severe and parliamentary, at the same time. 

Let that plebean talk, it is not my trade. 

But here I stand for right, for Roman right. 

How came he to the brink of that river ? how dared he cross it ? 

He should have perished upon the brink e'er he had crossed it. 

T defy the honorable gentleman, I defy the whole phalanx. 

EXAMPLES IN ANTITHETIC EMPHASIS. 

What is done cannot be undone. 

There is a material difference between giving and/orgiving. 
He must increase, but I must decrease. 
This is the main point — not progress everywhere, but some- 
where. 
I did not say an elder soldier, but a better. 
Homer was the better genius ; Virgil the better artist. 



30 EXPRESSION. 

EXAMPLES IN CUMULATIVE EMPHASIS. 

To arms ! to arms ! TO ARMS ! 
My first argument for the adoption of this measure is, the people 
demand it. My second argument is, the people demand it. 
My third argument is, THE PEOPLE DEMAND IT. 
None but the brave : none but the brave : none 
But the BRAVE deserve the fair. 

INFLEXION . 

Inflexion, is the variation of the pitch of the voice from its 
key-note, or the ordinary governing tone used in speaking or 
reading on any occasion. All persons have a key-note, or pre- 
vailing sound in their conversation, which arises chiefly from 
the character of their voice, as base, treble, alto, soprano, &c. 

Every subject has also its appropriate key-note or pitch suita- 
ble to the subject matter, the person speaking, and the occasion. 
This must be determined by each for himself. 

In reading or speaking the voice is constantly varied from 
this prevailing note, and with more or less rapidity changes from 
the lowest to the highest compass of its tones. 

The life of good speaking depends much upon the compass 
and variety of inflexion. 

Clear thought and strong feeling put the right inflexions in 
the power of the student, as they do every other point of 
expression ; for then he places himself under the inspiration of 
nature, the only guide in the noble art of Elocution. 

Observe that every syllable has its own note, and it is rarely, 
except in a style called the monotone, or in feeble and monotonous 
reading, that the same tone ought to occur twice in succession. 
This gives that charming variety to the voice in good speaking, 
without which it would pall upon the ear. Every polysyllabic 
word, every clause, and every sentence, has a highest, and a 
lowest tone in it ; and the rising to the one and the falling to 
the other constitutes inflexion. One is called the rising, the 
other the falling inflexion. In a single word (a polysyllable) 
the accented syllable commands the highest note in the word. 

Emphasis will run the vowel sound of a monosyllable through 
several notes of the scale, otherwise it has but one tone. 

Ex. — How' , dare you say so ! 

In clauses and sentences the rising and falling inflexion occur 
according to the sense and character of the sentiment : the 
degree of it is a matter entirely indefinite, but depends upon 
the strength of the feeling. 



EXPRESSION. 31 

As a general rule, the voice rises to the highest pitch, in a 
clause, on the accented syllable of the emphatic word ; but it is 
at the end of clauses and sentences that the inflexion is most 
marked and can be best described. 

For this purpose I shall give a few general principles for the 
guidance of the student in inflexion. 

The falling inflexion occurs — 

1. At the end of a sentence where the sense is complete and 
affirmative or negative. 

Ex. — The wind and rain are over\ 
I say it is not so\ 

2. At the end of a clause, in language of Command, Remon- 
strance, Denunciation, Reproach, Terror, Awe, or any vehement 
emotion accompanied with strong affirmation. 

Ex. — Down', cried Mar, your lances DOWN', &c. 

Why" will you act thus" in the King's presence' ? 

Woe unto you', Scribes and Pharisees', Hypocrites l ! 

Thou slave", thou wretch", thou coward"! 

Angels and ministers of grace', defend us\ 
The rising inflexion occurs — 

1. At the end of a sentence interrogative and where it can be 
answered by yes or no. 

Ex. — Canst thou minister to a mind diseased' ? 

2. At the end of a clause, where the sense is incomplete and 
where the sentence is not strongly affirmative, when Expec- 
tation, Concession, Inquiring Wonder, or Indignant Surprise is 
expressed, or Contemptuous Slight is implied, or where the sub- 
ject matter is treated as unimportant or trifling. 

Ex. — Of all the fields fertilized with carnage'. 
I grant you this may be abused'. 
What, am I braved' ? 
Is it possible' ? 

There is no terror in your threats', Cassius'. 
I care not if you did'. 
I do n't care much', it is of no consequence'. 

In certain styles of expression the voice takes a waving 
inflexion between high and low pitch, with a rapid transition. 
This occurs in Irony, Sarcasm, Scorn, Derision ; and may be 
given on a single word or a phrase. 



32 EXPRESSION. 

Ex. — yes, you are all that is courteous'. 

He is a rare pattern of humanity \ 
The same is found in certain kinds of Indecisive Assertions. 
Ex. — One may be wise, though he be poor'. 

I shall go, though I cannot tell when'. 

PITCH AND FORCE. 

Pitch refers to the general condition of the tones of the voice 
in repeating a passage, and must be distinguished from Inflexion, 
which describes the transitions of the voice in a word, clause, 
or sentence. It refers to the key-note of the voice, and marks out 
a general degree of elevation or depression in the current tone. 
Force, on the other hand, is the degree of strength expended in 
the expulsion of the voice. 

I treat of them here together, because when combined they 
make up loudness or softness in the voice, and the combination 
of different degrees of each, make up a peculiar intonation and 
expression that must be illustrated by bringing both to bear on 
the voice at the same time. 

I mark four degrees of Pitch : Low, Moderate, High, Very 
High. 

And four degrees of Force : Gentle, Moderate, Strong, Very 



Strong. 



EXAMPLES IN PITCH AND F0HCE. 



Moderate f On the earl's cheek the flush of rage' 

Pitch and force. | O'ercame the ashen hue of age* ; 

Low Fierce" he broke forth' ; — 

Hi9 h And darest thou, then', 

Rising. ... To beard the lion in his den'? 

Higher, The Douglas in his hall'? 

and And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go'? 

Louder. . . . No\ by Saint Bride of Bothwell, NO\ 

Very high j Up draw-bridge\ grooms' ! what, warder, ho y ! 

and loud — j Let the portcullis FALL\ 

Sometimes the expression requires a high pitch, but a gentle 
or moderate force, or the reverse. The first is required in very 
plaintive and sorrowful style, or in very joyous and lively 
expression. 

EXAMPLES. 

High pitch j Ah ! woe is me ; whither shall I fly ? 
and hw force. ( Pity the sorrows of a poor old man'. 



EXPRESSION. 33 

High, pitch j 0, dearest little baby', how sweet becoming 
and gentle force, "j Is thy crown of flowers'. 

Again the expression may require a low pitch in the voice, 
but great force in the utterance. The distinction must here be 
noticed. The force is expended, not on the tone of the voice, but 
on the strength of utterance, i. e. on the articulation and pro- 
nunciation. This indicates great force suppressed. It is used in 
strong but suppressed Passion — Suspicion, or Fear. 



Low 
pitch, 
but 
great 
force 
in the 
utterance. 



EXAMPLES. 

How like a faivning publican he looks' 

I hate him, for that he is a 

Christian 1 . — 

If I catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge 

I bear him'. — 

Had he not resembled 

My father as he slept' , I had done it\ 



QUALITY OF TONE. 

This has reference to the kind of voice used. 
Five qualities may be noticed. 1. The Pure Tone. 2. The 
Orotund. 3. The Aspirated. 4. Guttural. 5. The Trembling. 

1 . The Pure Tone is the ordinary tone of a good and well 
trained voice, clear, even, smooth, round, flowing, flexible in 
sound, and producing a moderate resonance in the head. 

Some are highly gifted in this way by nature, but all may 
improve indefinitely by diligent practice. 

It is the tone to be employed in all ordinary reading, where 
great passion or violent feeling is not expressed. 

2. The Orotund is the pure tone deepened, enlarged and 
intensified for the more earnest and vehement passages of feel- 
ing or the profounder emotions of the soul. It produces a 
greater resonance in the head and chest, requires depression in 
the larynx, opening of the throat, extension of the mouth, and 
expansion of the whole chest. 

When used with great force and high pitch, it is something 
more than loudness of tone. It is a rich volume of trumpet 
sound, inspiring and quickening life, and filling the whole man 
with exultation and conscious power. 

It is an admirable exercise to strengthen the vocal organs, 
and give life and spirit to the student of oratory ; and even in a 
physical point of view is important, by strengthening and expand- 
ing an apparatus so necessary to the health as the lungs. It is 



EXPRESSION. 



used in all energetic and vehement forms of expression where 
open courage and force are predominant, as in commanding on 
the field of battle, or in high and threatening language, and is 
always accompanied with high pitch and great force. 

examples. 

f Strike", till the last armed foe expires'. 
High pitch, j Sjjh^e^ f or y 0ur a it ars and your fires'. 

Great force. 1 STRIKE*, for the green graves of your sires', 
[ God and your native land*. 

„. , ' . , j On\ on', you noble English, 
^ ( Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof . 

j Wave', Munich', all thy banners wave', 
\ And CHARGE' with all thy chivalry. 

3. The Aspirated is used in the absence of the vocal sound, 
and is an expulsion of the breath more or less strong, the words 
being spoken in a whisper. It is used in amazement, fear, terror, 
horror. 

examples. 

Low pitch and force. How ill this taper burns ! 
Aspirate. Ha! who comes here? 

Very low j I think it is the weakness of mine eyes' 

pitch and force. j That shapes this monstrous apparition 1 ! 
Aspirate. It comes upon me. — Art thou anything ? 

Aspirate. j Have mercy', Heaven'. Ha! soft, 
Verylowpitch. | 'Tis but a dream'. 

But then so terrible", it shakes my soul'. 

^andjorc^ \ Cold dro P s of sweat ' han g on m J trembling flesh' ; 
Aspirate. [ My blood grows chilly*, and I freeze with horror*. 

4. The Guttural expresses suppressed hatred and concentrated 
malignity or loathing. 

N. B. — It occurs always on the emphatic words. 

EXAMPLES. 

Low pitch t q that tne glave had fort tnmisan( i y lYe <.\ 

and great force < *. i . . . 7 . J - . 

in the utterance. ( ^ ne 1S too poor , too weak , tor my revenge . 



Guttural. 



High pitch and force. < 
Guttural 



Thou slave", thou wretch", thou coward" ! 

Thou cold-blooded slave' ! 

Thou wear a lion's hide'? 

Doff it for shame", and hang 

A calf-skin on those recreant limbs. 



The words with 
the waving line 
have the trem- 
bling tone. 



EXPRESSION. 35 

5. The Trembling Tone is used in excessive grief, pity, ten- 
derness, or great plaintiveness, or in an intense degree of sup- 
pressed excitement, or satisfaction ; in the expression of passion 
good or bad, or when the voice is enfeebled by physical weakness. 

EXAMPLES. 

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud\ 
And chase the native beauty from his cheek', 
And he will look as hollow as a ghost\ 
As dim and meagre as an ague fit\ 
And so he '11 die ; and rising so again', 
When I shall meet him in the court of Heaven', 
I shall not know him\ 
Therefore, never\ never\ must I behold 
My pretty Arthur more'. 

Must thou be gone ? It is not yet near day ! 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
Nightly she sings in yon pomegranate tree. 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

love, be moderate, allay thy extasy, 

In measure rein thy joy, scant this excess. 

1 feel too much thy blessing. 

MOVEMENT. 

Movement refers to the rate of utterance ; and is slow, mode- 
rate, brisk, or rapid. It should never be so rapid as to be 
inconsistent with perfect distinctness of articulation. 

The Slow movement belongs to Pathos, Solemnity, Adoration, 
Horror, and Consternation ; to expression of Grandeur, Vast- 
ness, and the like. 

The Moderate or Common movement is used in didactic 
thought and simple narration or description. 

The Brisk or Lively, is used in a style cheerful, gay, joyous, 
and witty, and in all the gentler forms of the vivid emotions. 

The Rapid, is used in expression of hurry, confusion, violent 
anger, sudden fear, &c. 



36 EXPRESSION. 

EXAMPLES OF SLOW MOVEMENT. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

On horror's head, horrors accumulate. 

High on a throne of royal state, which far outshone 
The wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 
Satan exalted sat. 

EXAMPLES OF MODERATE MOVEMENT. 

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, 
Has seen " lodgings to let," stare him full in the face. 

A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright 
Conversed as they sat on the green. 

I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and 
brought up a family, did more service than he who continued 
single and only talked of population. 

EXAMPLES OF THE BRISK OR LIVELY MOVEMENT. 

The wind one morning sprung up from sleep, 
Crying, ''Now for a frolic, now for a leap !" 
Forth from the passing tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 
The archery appear. 

Come, thou goddess, fair and free, 
In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne ; 
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jests and youthful jollity. 

EXAMPLES OF THE RAPID MOVEMENT. 

And there was mounting in hot haste, 

The steed, the must'ring squadron, and the clattering car, 

When pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war. 

Up draw-bridge, grooms ! what, warder, ho ! 
Let the portcullis fall ! 

PAUSE. 

The pause I shall treat of here is the rhetorical pause, and 
not the ordinary pauses marked by the different punctuations. 



GESTURE. 37 

It is a striking suspension of the voice, to give effect to strong 
meaning and expression, or to mark expectation and "uncertainty. 

A pause is often more eloquent than words. 

The disregard of the common pauses of punctuation is one 
of the most common faults in reading, and none is more fatal to 
proper expression ; but the management of the rhetorical pause 
is a matter of far greater delicacy, though it is rather rare in 
occurrence. 

The length of the pause depends upon the rate of movement, 
the degree of emphasis, and the significancy intended ; hence it 
is a matter entirely relative. 

EXAMPLES OF THE RHETORICAL PAUSE. 

But hush! . . . hark! . . . that deep sound breaks in once more, 
And nearer ! . . . clearer ! . . . deadlier than before. 
Arm, arm ! ... it is ... it is the cannon's opening roar ! 

Traitor ! . . . I go, but . . . I return ! 



GESTURE. 
AN ANALYSIS OF GESTURE. 

The elements of all gesture, oratorical and dramatic, are few 
and well defined. I know not why they have escaped being 
clearly pointed out, by those who have treated of the subject of 
Elocution. 

They consist of a few definite positions of the arm, hand, and 
foot ; which, in combination, make an endless variety, but taken 
singly, are reducible to a small number. 

These are of two kinds, Oratorical and Dramatic. I proceed 
first to the analysis of oratorical gestures. 

ACTION OF THE FEET. 

Each foot is susceptible of only four positions.* These are 
illustrated for the right foot, in Figures 1, 3, 5, 6. The left 
foot is susceptible of exactly the same corresponding positions. 

In Fig. 1, the right foot is in poise, ready for motion: the 
heel points to the hollow of the left foot, and is two or three 

* Of course, I speak generally, and overlook slight variations. 



38 GESTURE. 

inches from it ; the knee is slightly bent ; the body rests chiefly 
on the left foot, and the leg stands stiff in support. This also 
is the position in Figs. 2 and 4. This is position No. 1. 

In Fig. 3, the right foot has been advanced straight forward 
one step ; the left, having been brought forward two or three 
inches from its previous position, rests with the heel lifted about 
one inch. The relative position of the feet remain as before ; but 
the weight of the body rests on the right foot. This is position 
No. 2. 

In Fig. 5, the right foot is moved laterally forward one step ; 
the left foot, slightly following as before, rests with the heel 
lifted. The weight of the body rests on the right foot. This is 
position No. 3. 

In Fig. 6, the right foot is thrown back of the left, one step, 
and at right angles to it ; the body is slightly inclined back, and 
rests chiefly upon the right foot. This is position No. 4. 

Through these four positions, the left foot may also be passed ; 
and this completes the action of the feet. 

ACTION OF THE ARMS. 

Each arm is susceptible of being put in six positions, which 
are illustrated for the right arm in the six Figures. 

In the first Figure, the arm is brought forward, half way 
between the perpendicular and the horizontal position, before 
the right leg. 

In Fig. 2, the arm is brought forward in a horizontal position 
on a level with the lower part of the chest. 

In Fig. 3, the arm is raised in front above the level of the 
head. 

In Fig. 4, the arm is brought out laterally at the same angle 
as in Fig. 1. 

In Fig. 5, the arm is brought up at the side, at the same angle 
as in Fig. 2. 

In Fig. 6, the arm is brought up at the side, in the same angle 
as in Fig. 3. 

Each of these positions maybe designated by its Number, 1, 
2, 3, 4, 5, or 6. 

The left arm, as well as both arms simultaneously, may be 
carried through the same six positions. 

Remarks on the Gesture of the Arms. — 1. The manner of 
bringing up the arm is a matter of great significancy, and sus- 
ceptible of considerable variety; but, in general, the arm is 
always lifted above the place where it is designed to rest, and 



GESTURE. 39 

then brought down to it, with more or less emphasis, according 
to the occasion. 

2. The motion of the arm precedes, and is brought to an 
emphatic rest, precisely on the emphatic word. 

3. In styles of speaking not very impassioned, the arm and 
hand move in curves ; but in invective and powerful emotion 
they move in straight lines. 

THE POSITION OF THE HANDS. 

There are four positions of the hands, illustrated in Figs. 1, 
3, 5, 6. 

In Fig. 1, the palm is open and supine, the thumb turned out, 
and the fingers slightly relaxed. 

In Fig. 3, the palm is open and prone. 

In Fig. 5, the hand is clenched. 

In Fig. 6, the hand points. 

Each of these positions must be associated in the pupil's mind 
with its Number, 1, 2, 3, or 4. 

DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE GESTURE. 

Of these we shall distinguish and illustrate six, as being the 
most conspicuous and important, and embracing the general 
range of this class of gesture and attitude. 

Fig. 1, is expressive of grief, remorse, despair : the hands 
are clasped and brought to the breast with a convulsive move- 
ment ; the face looking down ; the feet may be in either the 
first, second, or third attitude before described. 

Fig. 2, is expressive of earnest entreaty, agonizing prayer, 
rapture : the hands are clasped and brought convulsively to 
the breast near the chin ; the face raised toward heaven ; the 
feet may be in the first, second, third or fourth attitude. 

Fig. 3, is expressive of fear, terror: the palms bent upon 
the wrist and turned outward as if to repel ; the arms, partly 
and unequally flexed, stretch before the body ; the face look- 
ing toward the object ; the feet in the fourth position. 

Fig 4, expresses disgust, aversion, horror : the arms placed 
before the body nearly as before ; the face averted, the body 
somewhat thrown back ; the feet in the fourth position. 

Fig 5, expresses reference to self, to the heart, the feelings : 
the hand is brought to the region of the heart, in one of these 
positions — 1st, the palm open, the fingers somewhat apart; 
2d, the hands shut and brought so that the back of the thumb 



40 



GESTURE. 



touches the region of the heart ; 3d, the hand shut, but the 
thumb, open and recurved, points to the heart. 

Fig 6, expresses dignity, composure, self-confidence, pride : 
the arms are folded upon the breast ; one hand above, the other 
below the forearm. 

Each of these dramatic positions may be called for from the 
pupil by the several numbers, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 

It would be needless to attempt to mention or portray all the 
infinite varieties and shades of expression that may be conveyed 
by the motions and attitudes of the body. The above embraces 
all that is useful to which to direct the special attention of the 
student. Nature will do the rest when the occasion and the 
feeling call for it. Such natural gestures as the following need 
only to be mentioned to strike the intelligence at once : to 
clench the hair indicates desperation ; to touch the forehead, 
reflection ; to touch the nose, intelligence, cunning ; to touch the 
chin, deliberation ; to strike the breast, feeling, daring, &c. ; to 
touch the pocket, self-interest ; to slap the thigh, impatience ; to 
shake the finger or fist, menace, anger, &c. 

But the great mirror of expression is the face. There, in ever- 
changing shades, thought, feeling, passion, are portrayed with 
a power beyond the reach of language : wrath storms in the 
corrugated brow and flashes lightning from the eye ; love and 
tenderness thrill in the melting glance ; suppressed passion 
labors in the expanded nostrils ; scorn and disdain ride on the 
curled lip : — but what, but the pencil of the skillful painter, can 
do justice in describing these things ? 

Let the student of oratory throw himself under the guidance 
of nature, in all the self-abandonment of genuine feeling, and all 
other tutelage will be superseded. 

Note to Teachers. — The subject of Gesture is often much neglected even by professed 
teachers of Elocution. This arises chiefly from the want of some simple and intelligible 
system of instruction. 

I will give therefore, for the benefit of teachers, that mode of instruction which I have 
found most successful in impressing the elements of gesture on the minds of pupils. 

The whole secret lies in this — to analyze gesture into its elements, and teach these first ; 
then call attention to the various combinations. This has been done in the present work. 

It will be observed that each elementary gesture of the foot, arm and hand, has been 
disignated by a number : thus the arm has 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, positions ; the hand, 1, 2, 3, 
4 ; the foot, 1, 2, 3, 4. 

Let the pupils become familiar with these first. Then calling up an individual, or a 
class, the teacher can produce an endless variety of attitude and gesture, by designat- 
ing these numbers in various orders. My habit is to designate by the first number the 
position of the foot, (premising right or left) ; by the second number, the position of the 
arm (right or left) ; and by the third, the hand. 

Thus in the illustrations or oratorical gesture given in the plates, the first figure may 
be described by the Nos. 1, 1, 1 ; the second, 1, 2, 1 ; the third, 2, 3, 2 ; the fourth, 1, 4, 1 ; 
fifth, 3, 5, 3 ; sixth, 4, 6, 4. 

With regard to the dramatic gestures and attitudes, as there are only six principal ones, 
varied chiefly by the attitude of the feet, I call out first the number that marks the 
position of the feet, and then the Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, or 6, which designate the dramatic 
gestures in the order in which they are given in the plates. 



NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 

CHARACTER OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occa- 
sions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions 
excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than it is con- 
nected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clear- 
ness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce 
conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. 
It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for 
it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be mar- 
shaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist 
in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected pas- 
sion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire 
after it — they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like 
the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. 
The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments, and 
studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when 
their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and 
their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words 
have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory 
contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and sub- 
dued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriot- 
ism is eloquent ; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear 
conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, 
the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, 
beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the 
whole man onward, right onward to his object — this, this is 
eloquence ; or rather, it is something greater and higher than 
all eloquence, — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 

WEBSTER. 

4 



42 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



PHILLIPS ON THE POLICY OF ENGLAND. 

But what has England done for Europe ? what has she 
achieved for man ? Have morals been ameliorated ? Has 
liberty been strengthened ? Has any one improvement in 
politics or philosophy been produced ? Let us see how. You 
have restored to Portugal a prince of whom Ave know nothing, 
except that, when his dominions were invaded, his people dis- 
tracted, his crown in danger, and all that could interest the 
highest energies of man at issue, he left his cause to be com- 
bated by foreign bayonets, and fled with a dastard precipita- 
tion to the shameful security of a distant hemisphere ! You 
have restored to Spain a wretch of even worse than proverbial 
princely ingratitude ; who filled his dungeons, and fed his rack 
with the heroic remnant that braved war, and famine, and mas- 
sacre beneath his banners ; who rewarded patriotism with the 
prison, fidelity with the torture, heroism with the scaffold, and 
piety with the inquisition ; whose royalty was published by the 
signature of his death-warrants, and whose religion evaporated 
in the embroidering of petticoats for the Blessed Virgin! You 
have forced upon France a family to whom misfortune could 
teach no mercy, or experience wisdom ; vindictive in prosperity, 
servile in defeat, timid in the field, vacillating in the cabinet ; 
suspicion amongst themselves, discontent amongst their followers ; 
their memories tenacious but of the punishments they had pro- 
voked, their piety active but in subserviency to their priesthood, 
and their power passive but in the subjugation of their people ! 
Such are the dynasties you have conferred on Europe. In the 
very act, that of enthroning three individuals of the same family, 
you have committed in politics a capital error ; but Providence 
has countermined the ruin you were preparing, and whilst the 
impolicy presents the chance, their impotency precludes the dan- 
ger of a coalition. 

As to the rest of Europe, how has it been ameliorated ? 
What solitary benefit have the deliverers conferred ? They 
have partitioned the states of the feeble to feed the rapacity 
of the powerful ; and after having alternately adored and 
deserted Napoleon, they have wreaked their vengeance on 
the noble, but unfortunate fidelity that spurned their example. 
Do you want proofs ? look to Saxony, look to Genoa, look to 
Norway, but, above all, to Poland ! that speaking monument of 
regal murder and legitimate robbery — 

" Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of time — 
Sarmatia fell — unwept — without a crime !" 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 43 

Here "was an opportunity to recompense that brave, heroic, gen- 
erous, mai tyred, and devoted people ; here was an opportunity 
to convince Jacobinism that crowns and crimes were not, of 
course, coexistent, and that the highway rapacity of one gene- 
ration might be atoned by the penitential retribution of another ! 
Look to Italy — parceled out to temporizing Austria ; the land 
of the muse, the historian, and the hero ; the scene of every 
classic recollection ; the sacred fane of antiquity, where the 
genius of the world weeps and worships, and the spirits of the 
past start into life at the inspiring pilgrimage of some kindred 
Roscoe. Look to Prussia, after fruitless toil and wreathless 
triumphs, mocked with the promise of a visionary constitution. 
Look to France, chained and plundered, weeping over the tomb 
of her hopes and her heroes. Look to England, eaten by the 
canker of an incurable debt, exhausted by poor-rates, support- 
ing a civil list of near a million and a half, annual amount; 
guarded by a standing army of 149,000 men; misrepresented 
by a House of Commons, ninety of whose members in places 
and pensions derive £200,000 in yearly emoluments from the 
minister ; mocked with a military peace, and girt with the forti- 
fications of a war-establishment ! Shades of heroic millions, 
these are thy achievements ! Monster of legitimacy, this is 
thy consummation ! ! Can any man of sense say that the pres- 
ent system should continue ? What ! when war and peace 
have alternately thrown every family in the empire into mourn- 
ing and poverty, shall the fattened tax-gatherer extort the 
starving manufacturer's last shilling, to swell the unmerited 
and enormous sinecure of some wealthy pauper ? 



IRELAND. 

Ireland, with her imperial crown, now stands before you. 
You have taken her parliament from her, and she appears in her 
own person, at your bar. Will you dismiss a kingdom without 
a hearing ? Is this your answer to her zeal, to her faith, to the 
blood that has so profusely graced your march to victory — to 
the treasures that have decked your strength in peace ? Is her 
name nothing — her fate indifferent? are her contributions in- 
significant — her six millions revenue — her ten millions trade — 
her two millions absentee — her four millions loan ? Is such a 
country not worth a hearing ? Will you, can you dismiss her 



44 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

abruptly from your bar ? You cannot do it — the instinct of 
England is against it. We may be outnumbered now and again ; 
but in calculating the amount of the real sentiments of the 
people, the ciphers that swell the evanescent majorities of an 
evanescent minister go for nothing. 

Can Ireland forget the memorable era of 1788 ? Can others 
forget the munificent hospitality with which she then freely gave 
to her chosen hope all that she had to give ? Can Ireland forget 
the spontaneous and glowing cordiality with which her favors 
were then received ? Never ! Never ! Irishmen grew justly 
proud in the consciousness of being subjects of a gracious predi- 
lection — a predilection that required no apology, and called for 
no renunciation — a predilection that did equal honor to him 
who felt it, and to those who were the objects of it. It laid the 
grounds of a great and fervent hope — all a nation's wishes 
crowding to a point, and looking forward to one event, as the 
great coming, at which every wound was to be healed, every 
tear to be wiped away. The hope of that hour beamed with a 
cheering warmth and a seductive brilliancy. Ireland followed 
it with all her heart — a leading light through the wilderness, 
and brighter in its gloom. She followed it over a wide and 
barren waste : it has charmed her through the desert ; and now, 
that it has led her to the confines of light and darkness — now, 
that she is on the borders of the promised land, is the prospect 
to be suddenly obscured, and the fair vision of princely faith to 
vanish forever ! — I will not believe it — I require an act of par- 
liament to vouch its credibility — nay more, I demand a miracle 
to convince me that it is possible ! grattan. 



WASHINGTON, A MAN OF GENIUS. 

How many times have we been told that Washington was not 
a man of genius, but a person of excellent common sense, of admi- 
rable judgment, of rare virtues ! He had no genius, it seems. 
O no ! genius, we must suppose, is the peculiar and shining 
attribute of some orator, whose tongue can spout patriotic 
speeches ; or some versifier, whose muse can Hail Columbia ; 
but not of the man who supported states on his arm, and carried 
America in his brain. What is genius ? Is it worth anything ? 
Is splendid folly the measure of its inspiration ? Is wisdom its 
base and summit — that which it recedes from, or tends toward ? 
And by what definition do you award the name to the creator 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 45 

of an epic, and deny it to the creator of a country ? On what 
principle is it to be lavished on him who sculptures in perishing 
marble the image of possible excellence, and withheld from him 
who built up in himself a transcendent character, indestructible 
as the obligations of duty, and beautiful as her rewards ? 

Indeed, if by the genius of action, you mean will enlightened 
by intelligence, and intelligence energized by will, — if force 
and insight be its characteristics, and influence its test, and if 
great effects suppose a cause proportionally great, a vital, causa- 
tive mind, — then was Washington most assuredly a man of 
genius, and one whom no other American has equaled in the 
power of working morally and mentally on other minds. His 
genius was of a peculiar kind, the genius of character, of thought, 
and the objects of thought solidified and concentrated into active 
faculty. He belongs to that rare class of men, — rare as Homers 
and Miltons, rare as Platos and Newtons, — who have impressed 
their characters upon nations without pampering national vices. 
Such men have natures broad enough to include all the facts of 
a people's practical life, and deep enough to discern the spiritual 
laws which underlie, animate, and govern those facts. 

EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. 



CHALMERS ON WAR. 

I avow it. On every side of me I see causes at work, which 
go to spread a most delusive coloring over war, and to remove 
its shocking barbarities to the background of our contemplations 
altogether. I see it in the history which tells me of the superb 
appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive 
charges. I see it in the poetry which lends the magic of its 
numbers to the narrative of blood, and transports its many 
admirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes 
of chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene 
of legalized slaughter. 

I see it in the music which represents the progress of the 
battle ; and where, after being inspired by the trumpet-notes of 
preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing-room 
are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment ; nor do I 
hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones 
of the thickening contest, and the moans of the wounded men, 
as they fade away upon the ear, and sink into lifeless silence. 

All, all goes to prove what strange and half-sighted creatures 
we are. Were it not so, war could never have been seen in any 



46 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. . 

other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness ; and I can look 
to nothing but to the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth, 
to arrest the strong current of its popular and prevailing par- 
tiality for war. 

Then only will an imperious sense of duty lay the check of 
severe principle on all the subordinate tastes and faculties of our 
nature. Then will glory be reduced to its right estimate, and 
the wakeful benevolence of the gospel, chasing away every spell, 
will be turned by the treachery of no delusion whatever, from 
its simple but sublime enterprises for the good of the species. 
Then the reign of truth and quietness will be ushered into the 
world, and war, cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war, will be stripped 
of its many and its bewildering fascinations. 



THE FAMINE IN IRELAND. 

There lies upon the other side of the wide Atlantic a beauti- 
ful island, famous in story and in song. It has given to the world 
more than its share of genius and of greatness. It has been 
prolific in statesmen, warriors, and poets. Its brave and gener- 
ous sons have fought successfully in all battles but its own. In 
wit and humor it has no equal ; while its harp, like its history, 
moves to tears by its sweet but melancholy pathos. In this fair 
region God has seen fit to send the most terrible of all those fear- 
ful ministers who fulfill his inscrutable decrees. The earth has 
failed to give her increase ; the common mother has forgotten 
her offspring, and her breast no longer affords them their accus- 
tomed nourishment. Famine, gaunt and ghastly famine, has 
seized a nation with its strangling grasp ; and unhappy Ireland, 
in the sad woes of the present, forgets, for a moment, the gloomy 
history of the past. 

In battle, in the fullness of his pride and strength, little recks 
the soldier whether the hissing bullet sing his sudden requiem, 
or the cords of life are severed by the sharp steel. But he who 
dies of hunger, wrestles alone, day after day, with his grim and 
unrelenting enemy. He has no friends to cheer him in the ter- 
rible conflict ; for if he had friends, how could he die of hunger ? 
He has not the hot blood of the soldier to maintain him ; for his 
foe, vampire-like, has exhausted his veins. 

Who will hesitate to give his mite, to avert such awful results ? 
Give, then, generously and freely. Recollect, that in so doing, 
you are exercising one of the most e-odlike qualities of your 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 47 

nature, and at the same time enjoying one of the greatest luxuries 
of life. We ought to thank our Maker that he has permitted 
us to exercise equally with himself that noblest of even the 
Divine attributes, benevolence. Go home and look at your 
families, smiling in rosy health, and then think of the pale, fam- 
ine-pinched cheeks of the poor children of Ireland ; and you will 
give, according to your store, even as a bountiful Providence has 
given to you — not grudgingly, but with an open hand ; for the 
quality of benevolence, like that of mercy, 

" Is not strained ; 
It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ; 
It blesses him that gives, and him that takes." 

S. S. PRENTISS. 



CICERO FOR MILO. 



But if, my lords, you are not yet convinced, though the thing 
shines out with such strong and full evidence, that Milo returned 
to Rome with an innocent mind, unstained with guilt, undisturbed 
by fear, and free from the accusations of conscience ; call to 
mind, I beseech you by the immortal gods, the expedition with 
which he came back, his entrance into the forum while the sen- 
ate-house was in flames, the greatness of soul he discovered, the 
look he assumed, the speech he made on the occasion. He deliv- 
ered himself up, not only to the people, but even to the senate ; 
nor to the senate alone, but even to guards appointed for the 
public security ; nor merely to them, but even to the authority 
of him whom the senate had intrusted with the care of the whole 
republic ; to whom he would never have delivered himself, if he 
had not been confident of the goodness of his cause. 

What now remains, but to beseech and adjure you, my lords, 
to extend that compassion to a brave man, which he disdains to 
implore, but which I, even against his consent, implore and 
earnestly intreat. Though you have not seen him shed a single 
tear while all are weeping around him ; though he has preserved 
the same steady countenance, the same firmness of voice and 
language ; do not on this account withhold it from him. 

On you, on you I call, ye heroes, who have lost so much blood 
in the service of your country ! to you, ye centurions, ye soldiers, 
I appeal in this hour of danger to the best of men, and bravest 
of citizens ? While you are looking on, while you stand here with 



48 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

arms in your hands, and guard this tribunal, shall virtue like this 
be expelled, exterminated, cast out with dishonor? By the im- 
mortal gods, I wish (pardon me, my country ! for I fear what 
I shall say out of a pious regard for Milo may be deemed impiety 
against thee) that Clodius not only lived, but were praetor, con- 
sul, dictator, rather than be witness to such a scene as this. 
Shall this man, then, who was born to save his country, die any 
where but in his country ? Shall he not at least die in the serv- 
ice of his country ? Will you retain the memorials of his gal- 
lant soul, and deny his body a grave in Italy ? Will any person 
give his voice for banishing a man from this city, whom every 
city on earth would be proud to receive within its walls ? Happy 
the country that shall receive him ! ungrateful this if it shall 
banish him ! wretched, if it should lose him ! But I must con- 
clude : my tears will not allow me to proceed, and Milo forbids 
tears to be employed in his defense. You, my lords, I beseech 
and adjure, that, in your decision, you would dare to act as you 
think. Trust me, your fortitude, your justice, your fidelity, will 
more especially be approved of by him, (Pompey), who in his 
choice of judges has raised to the bench the bravest, the wisest, 
and the best of men. 



DEMOSTHENES TO THE ATHENIANS. 

Such, men of Athens ! were your ancestors : so glorious in 
the eye of the world ; so bountiful and munificent to their coun- 
try; so sparing, so modest, so self-denying to themselves. What 
resemblance can we find, in the present generation, of these 
great men. At a time when your ancient competitors have left 
you a clear stage ; when the Lacedemonians are disabled, the 
Thebans employed in troubles of their own ; when no other state 
whatever is in a condition to rival or molest you ; in short, when 
you are at full liberty ; when you have the opportunity and the 
power to become once more the sole arbiters of Greece ; you 
permit, patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from you ; 
you lavish the public money in scandalous and obscure uses ; 
you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace, whom you pre- 
served in time of war ; and, to sum up all, you yourselves, by 
your mercenary court, and servile resignation to the will and 
pleasure of designing, insidious leaders, abet, encourage, and 
strengthen the most dangerous and formidable of your enemies. 
Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 49 

your own ruin. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to 
deny it ? Let him arise, and assign, if he can, any other cause of 
the success and prosperity of Philip. " But," you reply, "what 
Athens may have lost in reputation abroad, she has gained in splen- 
dor at home. Was there ever a greater appearance of prosperity ; 
a greater face of plenty ? Is not the city enlarged ? Are not 
the streets better paved, houses repaired and beautified ?" Away 
with such trifles ! Shall I be paid with counters ? An old 
square new-vamped up ! a fountain ! an aqueduct ! are these 
acquisitions to brag of ? Cast your eyes upon the magistrate 
under whose ministry you boast these precious improvements. 
Behold the despicable creature, raised, all at once, from dirt to 
opulence ; from the lowest obscurity to the highest honors. 
Have not some of these upstarts built private houses and seats 
vieing with the most sumptuous of our public palaces ? And 
how have their fortunes and their power increased, but as the 
commonwealth has been ruined and impoverished. 

To what are we to impute these disorders ; and to what cause 
assign the decay of a state so powerful and flourishing in past 
times ? The reason is plain. The servant is now become the 
master. The magistrate was then subservient to the people ; 
punishments and rewards were properties of the people ; all 
honors, dignities, and preferments, were disposed by the voice 
and favor of the people ; but, the magistrate now has usurped 
the right of the people, and exercises an arbitrary authority 
over his ancient and natural lord. You, miserable people ! (the 
meanwhile, without money, without friends,) from being ruler, 
are become the servant ; from being the master, the dependent ; 
happy that these governors, into whose hands you have thus 
resigned your own power, are so good and so gracious as to 
continue your allowance to see plays. 



SALATHIEL TO TITUS. 



Son of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man, as I may in 
the next be an exile or a slave : I have ties to life as strong as 
ever were bound round the heart of man : I stand here a sup- 
pliant for the life of one whose loss would imbitter mine ! Yet, 
not for wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the life 
of the noble victim that is now standing at the place of torture, 
dare I abandon, dare I think the impious thought of abandoning 
the cause of the City of Holiness. 



50 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Titus ! in, the name of that Being, to whom the wisdom of the 
earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. 
Her crimes have often wrought her misery — often has she been 
trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City 
of the Omnipotent ; and never was blow inflicted on her by 
man, that was not terribly repaid. 

The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world : he 
plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How 
long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extin- 
guished in blood, and an enemy on his throne ? — The Persian 
came : from her protector, he turned into her oppressor ; and 
his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert ! — The 
Syrian smote her : the smiter died in agonies of remorse ; and 
where is his kingdom now ? — The Egyptian smote her : and who 
now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies ? 

Pompey came : the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand 
cities, the light of Rome ; the lord of Asia, riding on the very 
wings of victory. But he profaned her temple ; and from that 
hour he went down — down, like a millstone plunged into the 
ocean ! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish fears, were 
upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he 
sleep ? What sands were colored with his blood ? The uni- 
versal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave ! Crassus 
came at the head of the legions : he plundered the sacred vessels 
of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed 
by the curse of God. Where are the bones of the robber and 
his host ? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf 
of Parthia, — their fitting tomb ! 

You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the 
punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may 
scourge our naked vice by force of arms ; and then you may 
return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest 
enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the 
instrument of evil ? Shall you see a peaceful old age ? Shall 
a son of yours ever sit upon the throne ? Shall not rather some 
monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and 
make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name ? 

CROLY. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 51 



PHILLIPS ON THE WRONGS OF IRELAND. 

You traverse the ocean to emancipate the African ; you cross 
the line to convert the Hindoo ; you hurl your thunder against 
the savage Algerine ; but your own brethren at home, who 
speak the same tongue, acknowledge the same king, and kneel 
to the same God, cannot get one visit from your itinerant hu- 
manity ! Oh, such a system is almost too abominable for a 
name ; it is a monster of impiety, impolicy, ingratitude, and 
injustice ! The pagan nations of antiquity scarcely acted on such 
barbarous principles. Look to ancient Rome, with her sword in 
one hand, and her constitution in the other, healing the injuries 
of conquest with the embrace of brotherhood, and wisely con- 
verting the captive into the citizen. Look to her great enemy, 
the glorious Carthagenian, at the foot of the Alps, ranging his 
prisoners round bim, and by the politic option of captivity or 
arms, recruiting his legions with the very men whom he had 
literally conquered into gratitude ? They laid their foundations 
deep in the human heart, and their succcess was porportionate 
to their policy. You complain of the violence of the Irish 
Catholic : can you wonder he is violent ? It is the consequence 
of your own infliction — 

" The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear, 
The blood will follow where the knife is driven." 

Your friendship has been to him worse than hostility ; he feels 
its embrace but by the pressure of his fetters ! I am only 
amazed he is not more violent. He fills your exchequer, he 
fights your battles, he feeds your clergy from whom he derives 
no benefit, he shares your burdens, he shares your perils, he 
shares everything except your privileges — can you wonder he is 
violent ? No matter what his merit, no matter what his claims, 
no matter what his services : he sees himself a nominal subject, 
and a real slave ; and his children, the heirs, perhaps of his 
toils, perhaps of his talents, certainly of his disqualifications — 
can you wonder he is violent ? He sees every pretended obstacle 
to his emancipation vanished : Catholic Europe your ally, the 
Bourbon on the throne, the emperor a captive, the pope a friend ; 
the aspersions on his faith disproved by his allegiance to you 
against, alternately, every Catholic potentate in Christendom, 
and he feels himself branded with hereditary degradation — can 
you wonder, then, that he is violent ? He petitioned humbly ; his 
tameness was construed into a proof of apathy. He petitioned 
boldly ; his remonstrance was considered as an impudent au- 
dacity. He petitioned in peace ; he was told it was not the time. 



52 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He petitioned in war ; he was told it was not the time. A 
strange interval, a prodigy in politics, a pause between peace 
and war, which appeared to be just made for him, arose ; I 
allude to the period between the retreat of Louis and the restora- 
tion of Bonaparte : he petitioned then, and was told it was not 
the time. Oh, shame ! shame ! shame ! I hope he will petition 
no more to a parliament so equivocating. However, I am not 
sorry they did so equivocate, because I think they have sug- 
gested one common remedy for the grievances of both countries, 
and that remedy is, a reform of that parliament. 



THE PRICE OF ELOQUENCE. 

More than twenty centuries ago, the orphan son of an Athenian 
sword-cutler, neglected by his guardians, and regarded as a youth 
of feeble promise, became, at the age of sixteen, enamored of 
eloquence. He resolved, with a strength of will and an ardor of 
enthusiasm to which nothing is insuperable, to be himself elo- 
quent. This youth becomes successively the docile pupil of 
Callistratus, Isseus, Isocrates, and Plato. But his studies, 
though embracing a liberal and wide range of letters, philosophy 
and science, are not confined to the academy or the public grove. 
We see him daily ascending the Acropolis, and panting for breath 
as he gains the summit. Again he is seen laboriously climbing 
Olympus, the Hymettus, and every eminence where genius or 
the muses have breathed their inspiration. 

His object, which he pursues with an ardor that never flags, 
and a diligence that never tires, is twofold, viz : to drink in the 
free and fresh inspirations of nature and art, and, by unremitting 
daily exercise, to give expansion to his chest, and strength and 
freedom of play to his lungs. 

We see him again, when the tempest comes on, hurrying to 
the least frequented parts of the Piraeus or Phalerus, and while 
the deafening thunders roar around him, and the deep and stir- 
ring eloquence of many waters expands and fills his soul, lifting 
his feeble and stammering voice, and essaying to give it compass, 
and flexibility, and power, while he ''talks with the thunder as 
friend to friend, and weaves his garland of the lightning's wing." 

We see this ardent Athenian youth again, amidst the profound- 
est solitudes of nature, holding communion with high and enno- 
bling thoughts stirred within his bosom by the spirit of the great 
and godlike, the sublime and beautiful, from every object of 
nature and of plastic art around him. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 53 

At length, day after day and night after night, for months, he 
is seen entering a solitary cave. How is he busied in that sub- 
terranean chamber ? With his head half shaven, that he may 
not be tempted to appear too early in society or in public, we find 
him poring over the tomes of rhetoricians, historians, philosophers 
and poets ; with his pen, also, eight times transcribing Thucydides, 
that he may make his own, some portion of the terseness, energy 
and fire of that historian. 

After all this educational training of the greatest and best 
masters, living and dead — after all this self-imposed discipline 
of intellect and spirit, and when he has reached the age of ripe 
manhood, we go to witness his first effort in forensic eloquence. 

The hisses of his fastidious auditory stifle and repress for a time 
the kindling energy and fervor of his soul, and his still embar- 
rassed and stammering enunciation seems to jeopardize the cause 
he is pleading. At length he rises in a conscious mastery of his 
subject and of himself, and with the self-sustained dignity of the 
true orator, conciliates, convinces, moves, persuades, by the 
clearness, fitness and force of his arguments, and the thrilling 
pathos and pungency of his appeals. 

This is eloquence — the eloquence of the Athenian Demos- 
thenes — the triumph of educational skill and self-discipline, 
united, indeed, with great powers, and with a lofty and indomi- 
table force of will. 

The meed which the concurrent suffrages of more than two 
thousand years, in every civilized nation of the globe, have 
awarded to this great orator, we readily concede to him. But in 
our admiration of the power of his eloquence, we are too willmo- 
to forget the laborious and pains-taking efforts of study and dis- 
cipline by which he attained his unrivaled eminence in oratorical 

power. CHAUNCEY C0LTON, D. D. 



A POLITICAL PAUSE. 



"But we must pause!" says the honorable gentleman. 
What ! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out — her best 
blood be spilt — her treasures wasted — that you may make an 
experiment ? Put yourselves, ! that you would put yourselves 
on the field of battle, and learn to judge of the sort of horrors 
that you excite. In former wars a man might, at least, have 
some feeling, some interest, that served to balance in his mind 
the impressions which a scene of carnage and of death must 
inflict. 



54 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and 
were to inquire for what they were fighting, — " Fighting ! " 
would be the answer ; " they are not fighting ; they are paus- 
ing. " " Why is that man expiring ? Why is that other writh- 
ing with agony ? What means this implacable fury ? " The 
answer must be, — "You are quite wrong, sir, you deceive 
yourself — they are not fighting — do not disturb them — they 
are merely pausing ! This man is not expiring with agony — 
that man is not dead — he is only pausing ! Lord help you, sir ! 
they are not angry with one another : they have now no cause 
of quarrel ; but their country thinks that there should be a pause. 
All that you see, sir, is nothing like fighting — there is no harm, 
nor cruelty, nor bloodshed in it, whatever ; it is nothing more 
than a political pause ! It is merely to try an experiment — to 
see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself better than here- 
tofore ; and in the meantime we have agreed to a pause, in pure 
friendship !" 

And is this the way, sir, that you are to show yourselves the 
advocates of order ? You take up a system calculated to unciv- 
ilize the world — to destroy order — to trample on religion — to 
stifle in the heart, not merely the generosity of noble sentiment, 
but the affections of social nature ; and in the prosecution of this 
system, you spread terror and devastation all around you. 

EOX. 



PREVALENCE OF WAR. 



War is the law of violence. Peace the law of love. That 
law of violence prevailed without mitigation from the murder of 
Abel to the advent of the Prince of Peace. 

We might have imagined, if history had not attested the 
reverse, that an experiment of four thousand years would have 
sufficed to prove, that the rational and valuable ends of society 
can never be attained, by constructing its institutions in conform- 
ity with the standard of war. But the sword and the torch had 
been eloquent in vain. A thousand battle-fields, white with the 
bones of brothers, were counted as idle advocates in the cause 
of justice and humanity. Ten thousand cities, abandoned to the 
cruelty and licentiousness of the soldiery, and burnt, or disman- 
tled, or razed to the ground, pleaded in vain against the law of 
violence. The river, the lake, the sea, crimsoned with the blood 
of fellow-citizens, and neighbors, and strangers, had lifted up 
their voices in vain to denounce the folly and wickedness of war. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 04) 

The shrieks and agonies, the rage and hatred, the wounds and 
curses of the battle-field, and the storm and the sack, had scat- 
tered in vain their terrible warnings throughout all lands. In 
vain had the insolent Lysander destroyed the walls and burnt the 
fleets of Athens, to the music of her own female flute-players. 
In vain had Scipio, amid the ruins of Carthage, in the spirit of a 
gloomy seer, applied to Rome herself the prophecy of Agamem- 
non — 

" The day shall come, the great avenging day, 
Which Troy's proud glories in the dust shall lay ; 
When Priam's power, and Priam's self shall fall, 
And one prodigious ruin swallow all." grimke. 



NEW ENGLAND AND THE UNION. 

Glorious New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient 
fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. On thy pleasant val- 
leys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of 
our early life ; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gather- 
ing mists, the mighty memories of the revolution ; and far away 
in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern 
lights, the awful virtues of our Pilgrim sires ! But while we 
devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget 
not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflec- 
tion, that though we count by thousands the miles which sepa- 
rate us from our birthplace, still our country is the same. We 
are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell 
its waters with our homesick tears. Here floats the same banner 
which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty 
folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. 

The sons of New England are found in every State of the 
broad republic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded 
West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. 
We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; in 
all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our 
brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its 
household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly 
devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth ; 
of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. 

We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits 
of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and 
Southern blood : how shall it be separated ? — who shall put 
asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of 



56 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

our nature ? We love the land of our adoption ; so do we that 
of our birth. Let us ever be true to both ; and always exert 
ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity 
of the republic. 

Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden 
cord of union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall 
propose its severance ! s. s. Prentiss. 



CHRISTIANITY THE BASIS OF LIBERTY. 

Twice, in France, the physical power has gained the acend- 
ancy over law ; and by the last victory, the discovery has been 
made, that to patriots, cities are fortresses, and pavements, 
munitions. This is one of the most glorious and dreadful dis- 
coveries of modern days — glorious in its ultimate results, in the 
emancipation of the world, but dreadful in those intervening 
revolutions which power may achieve in the conquest of liberty, 
without corresponding intelligence and virtue for its permanent 
preservation. 

The conquest of liberty is not difficult — the question is, where 
to put it — with whom to intrust it. If to the multitude who 
achieved it, it be committed, it will perish by anarchy. If 
national guards are employed for its defense, the bayonets which 
protect it, are at any moment able to destroy it for a military 
despotism. If to a republican king it be intrusted, it will have 
to be regulated by state policy, and fed on bread and water, 
until the action of her heart, and the movement of her tongue, 
and the power of her arm, as under the deadly incubus, shall 
cease. There is not in this wide world a safe deposit for liberty, 
but the hearts of patriots, so enlightened, as to be able to judge of 
correct legislation, and so patient and disinterested, as to practice 
self-denial, and self -government, for the public good. 

But can such a state of society be founded and maintained with- 
out the Bible, and the institutions of Christianity ? Did a condition 
of unperverted liberty, uninspired by Christianity, ever bless the 
world through any considerable period of duration ? The power 
of a favoring clime, and the force of genius, did thrust up from 
the dead level of monotonous despotism, the republics of Greece 
to a temporary liberty : but it was a patent model only, com- 
pared with such a nation as this ; and it was partial, and capri- 
cious, and of short duration, and rendered illustrious rather by 
the darkness which preceded and followed, than by the benign 
influence of its own beams. beecher. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 57 



PHILLIPS ON WASHINGTON. 



Such, sir, is the natural progress of human operations, and 
such the unsubstantial mockery of human pride. But I should, 
perhaps, apologize for this digression. The tombs are at best 
a sad, although an instructive subject. At all events, they are 
ill suited to such an hour as this. I shall endeavor to atone for 
it, by turning to a theme, which tombs cannot inurn, or revolu- 
tion alter. It is the custom of your board, and a noble one it is, 
to deck the cup of the gay with the garland of the great : and 
surely, even in the eyes of its deity, his grape is not the less 
lovely when glowing beneath the foliage of the palm tree and the 
myrtle. Allow me to add one flower to the chaplet, which, though 
it sprung in America, is no exotic. Virtue planted it, and it is 
naturalized everywhere. I see you anticipate me — I see you 
concur with me, that it matters very little what immediate spot 
may be the birthplace of such a man as Washington. No peo- 
ple can claim, no country can appropriate him ; the boon of Provi- 
dence to the human race, his fame is eternity, and his residence 
creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms, and the dis- 
grace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he 
had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, 
yet, when the storm passed, how pure was the climate that it 
cleared ; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet 
which it revealed to us ! In the production of Washington it 
does really appear as if nature was endeavoring to improve upon 
herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so 
many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual 
instances no doubt there were — splendid exemplifications of some 
single qualification : Caesar was merciful, Scipio was continent, 
Hannibal was patient ; but it was reserved for Washington to 
blend them all in one, and like the lovely chef d'oeuvre of the 
Grecian artist, to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty, the 
pride of every model, and the perfection of every master. As 
a general, he marshaled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied 
by discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he en- 
larged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive 
system of general advantage ; and such was the wisdom of his 
views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that to the soldier 
and the statesman, he almost added the character of the sage ! 
A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood ; a revo- 
lutionist, he was free from any stain of treason ; for aggression 
commenced the contest, and his country called him to the com- 
mand. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained, victory 



58 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

returned it. If he had paused here, history might have doubted 
what station to assign him : whether at the head of her citizens 
or her soldiers — her heroes or her patriots. But the last glori- 
ous act crowns his career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, 
like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned 
its crown, and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the 
adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created ! 

" How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, 
Thou more than soldier and just less than sage ; 
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, 
Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be ! " 

Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality 
in his estimate of America. Happy, proud America ! the light- 
nings of heaven yielded to your philosophy ! The temptations 
of earth could not seduce your patriotism ! 



ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. 



My brave associates — partners of my toil, my feelings, and 
my fame ! — can Holla's words add vigor to the virtuous ener- 
gies which inspire your hearts ? — No ! — You have judged as I 
have, the foulness of the crafty plea, by which these bold inva- 
ders would delude you. — Your generous spirit has compared, 
as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate 
their minds and ours. 

They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, 
and extended rule ; — we, for our country, our altars, and our 
homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey 
a power which they hate ; — we serve a monarch whom we 
love — a God whom we adore. Where'er they move in anger, 
desolation tracks their progress ! Where'er they pause in amity, 
affliction mourns their friendship. 

They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our 
thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error ! — Yes : — they 
will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves 
the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their 
protection ! — Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — 
covering and devouring them ! They call on us to barter all the 
good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of 
something better, which they promise. Be our plain answer 
this : — The throne we honor is the people's choice — the laws 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 59 

we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy — the faith we follow 
teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die 
with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, 
and tell them, too, we seek no change ; and least of all, such 
change as they would bring us. sheridan. 



SPEECH OF BELIAL, DISSUADING WAR. 

Wherefore cease ye then ? 
Say they, who counsel war — "We are decreed, 
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe : 
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, 
What can we suffer worse ? " Is this then worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 
What when we fled amain, pursued and struck 
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? this hell then seemed 
A refuge from those wounds ! or when we lay 
Chained on the burning lake ? that sure was worse. 
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
And plunge us in the flames ? or, from above, 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague ? what if all 
Her stores were opened, and this firmament 
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 
Impending horrors, threatening hideous fall 
One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 
Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, 
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey 
Of racking whirlwinds ; or forever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in chains 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 
Ages of hopeless end ? — this would be worse 
War, therefore, open and concealed, alike 
My voice dissuades. milton. 



60 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



POPULAR ELECTIONS. 

Sir, if there is any spectacle from the contemplation of which 
I would shrink with peculiar horror, it would be that of the great 
mass of the American people sunk into a profound apathy on the 
subject of their highest political interests. Such a spectacle 
would be more protentous to the eye of intelligent patriotism, 
than all the monsters of the earth, and fiery signs of the heavens, 
to the eye of trembling superstition. If the people could be 
indifferent to the fate of a contest for the presidency, they would 
be unworthy of freedom. If I were to perceive them sinking 
into this apathy, I would even apply the power of political gal- 
vanism, if such a power could be found, to rouse them from their 
fatal lethargy. Keep the people quiet ! Peace ! peace ! Such 
are the whispers by which the people are to be lulled to sleep, 
in the very crisis of their highest concerns. Sir, "you make a 
solitude, and call it peace ! " Peace ? 'Tis death ! Take away 
all interest from the people, in the election of their chief ruler, 
and liberty is no more. What, sir, is to be the consequence ? 
If the people do not elect the president, somebody must. There 
is no special providence to decide the question. Who, then, is 
to make the election, and how will it operate ? You throw a 
general paralysis over the body politic, and excite a morbid action 
in particular members. The general patriotic excitement of the 
people, in relation to the election of the president, is as essen- 
tial to the health and energy of the political system, as circula- 
tion of the blood is to the health and energy of the natural body. 
Check that circulation, and you inevitably produce local inflam- 
mation, gangrene, and ultimately death. Make the people indif- 
ferent, destroy their legitimate influence, and you communicate 
a morbid violence to the efforts of those who are ever ready to 
assume the control of such affairs — the mercenary intriguers 
and interested office-hunters of the country. Tell me not, sir, 
of popular violence ! Show me a hundred political factionists — 
men who look to the election of a president as the means of 
gratifying their high or their low ambition — and I will show you 
the very materials for a mob; ready for any desperate adventure 
connected with their common fortunes. The reason of this extra- 
ordinary excitement is obvious. It is a matter of self-interest, 
of personal ambition. The people can have no such motives. 
They look only to the interest and glory of the country. 

GEORGE m'dUFFIE. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 61 



THE MEXICAN WAR. 



I ask, Mr. President, what has Mexico got from you for 
parting with two-thirds of her domain ? She has given you 
ample redress for every injury of which you have complained. 
She has submitted to the award of your commissioners, and 
up to the time of the rupture with Texas, faithfully paid it. 
And for all that she has lost (not through or by you, but which 
loss has been your gain, ) what requital do we, her strong, rich, 
robust neighbor, make ? Do we send our missionaries there, 
"to point the way to heaven?" Or do we send the school- 
masters to pour daylight into her dark places, to aid her infant 
strength to conquer freedom, and reap the fruit of the independ- 
ence herself alone had won ? No, no ; none of this do we. 
But we send regiments, storm towns, and our colonels prate of 
liberty in the midst of the solitudes their ravages have made. 
They proclaim the empty forms of social compact to a people 
bleeding and maimed with wounds received in defending their 
hearth-stones against the invasion of these very men who shoot 
them down, and then exhort them to be free. Your chaplain 
of the navy throws aside the New Testament and seizes a bill 
of rights. He takes military possession of some town in Califor- 
nia, and instead of teaching the plan of the atonement and the 
way of salvation to the poor, ignorant Celt, he presents Colt's 
pistol to his ear, and calls on him to take "trial by jury and 
habeas corpus," or nine bullets in his head. Oh ! Mr. Presi- 
dent, are you not the lights of the earth, if not its salt ? 

What is the territory, Mr. President, which you propose to 
wrest from Mexico ? It is consecrated to the heart of the Mexi- 
can by many a well-fought battle with his old Castilian master. 
His Bunker Hills, and Saratogas, and Yorktowns are there ! The 
Mexican can say, " There I bled for liberty ! and shall I sur- 
render that consecrated home of my affections to the Anglo- 
Saxon invaders ? What do they want with it ? They have 
Texas already. They have possessed themselves of the territory 
between the Nueces and the Rio Grande. What else do they 
want ? To what shall I point my children as memorials of that 
independence which I bequeath to them, when those battle-fields 
shall have passed from my possession ? " 

Sir, had one come and demanded Bunker Hill of the people 
of Massachusetts — had England's lion ever showed himself 
there, is there a man over thirteen and under ninety who would 
not have been ready to meet him ? — is there a river on this con- 
tinent that would not have run red with blood ? — is there a field 



THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



but would have been piled high with the unbufied bones of 
slaughtered Americans, before these consecrated battle-fields of 
liberty should have been wrested from us ? thomas corwin. 



PHILLIPS ON AMERICA. 

If, as a man, I venerate the mention of America, what must 
be my feelings toward her as an Irishman. Never, oh, never, 
while memory remains, can Ireland forget the home of her 
emigrant, and the asylum of her exile. No matter whether 
their sorrows sprung from the errors of enthusiasm, or the 
realities of suffering, from fancy or infliction; that must be 
reserved for the scrutiny of those whom the lapse of time shall 
acquit of partiality. It is for the men of other ages to investi- 
gate and record it ; but surely it is for the men of every age to 
hail the hospitality that received the shelterless, and love the 
feeling that befriended the unfortunate. Search creation round, 
where can you find a country that presents so sublime a view, so 
interesting an anticipation ? What noble institutions ! What a 
comprehensive policy ! What a wise equalization of every 
political advantage ! The oppressed of all countries, the martyrs 
of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic arrogance or 
superstitious frenzy, may there find refuge ; his industry en- 
couraged, his piety respected, his ambition animated ; with no 
restraint, but those laws which are the same to all, and no dis- 
tinction but that which his merit may originate. Who can deny 
that the existence of such a country presents a subject for human 
congratulation ! Who can deny, that its gigantic advancement 
offers a field for the most rational conjecture ! At the end of 
the very next century, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, 
what a wondrous spectacle may she not exhibit ! Who shall say 
for what purpose a mysterious Providence may not have designed 
her ! Who shall say, that when, in its follies or its crimes, the 
old world may have interred all the pride of its power, and all 
the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find its des- 
tined renovation in the new ! For myself, I have no doubt of it. 
I have not the least doubt, that when our temples and our 
trophies shall have mouldered into dust — when the glories of 
our name shall be but the legend of tradition, and the light of 
our achievements only live in song ; philosophy will rise again in 
the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle at the urn of her 
Washington. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 63 



ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

No, fellow-citizens, we dismiss not Adams and Jefferson to 
the chambers of forgetfulness and death. What we admired, and 
prized, and venerated in them can never die, nor, dying, be for- 
gotten. I had almost said that they are now beginning to live ; 
to live that life of unimpaired influence, of unclouded fame, of 
unmingled happiness, for which their talents, and services were 
destined. They were of the select few, the least portion of whose 
life dwells in their physical existence ; whose hearts have watched 
while their senses slept ; whose souls have grown up into a 
higher being ; whose pleasure is to be useful ; whose wealth is 
an unblemished reputation ; who respire the breath of honorable 
fame ; who have deliberately and consciously put what is called 
life to hazard, that they may live in the hearts of those who come 
after. Such men do not, cannot die. To be cold, and motion- 
less, and breathless ; to feel not and speak not ; this is not the end 
of existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the 
institutions of their country, who have stamped their characters 
on the pillars of the age, who have poured their hearts' blood 
into the channels of the public prosperity. Tell me, ye who 
tread the sods of yon sacred hight, is Warren dead ? Can you 
not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant 
heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent 
over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, 
and the fire of liberty in his eye ? Tell me, ye who make your 
pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed 
shut up in that cold and narrow house ? That which made these 
men, and men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the 
charter of independence is indeed motionless, the eloquent lips 
that sustained it are hushed ; but the lofty spirits that conceived, 
resolved, matured, maintained it, and which alone, to such men, 
"make it life to five," these cannot expire: 
" These shall resist the empire of decay, 
When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away : 
Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die." 

EDWARD EVERETT. 



MOLOCH'S ORATION FOR WAR. 

My sentence is for open war ; of wiles, 
More unexpert, I boast not ; them let those 
Contrive who need ; or when thev need ; not now. 



64 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, 

Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 

The signal to ascend, sit lingering here 

Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place 

Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 

The prison of his tyranny who reigns 

By our delay ! No, — rather let us choose, 

Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once 

O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, 

Turning our tortures into horrid arms 

Against the torturer ; when to meet the noise 

Of his almighty engine he shall hear 

Infernal thunder ; and, for lightning, see 

Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 

Among his angels ; and his throne itself 

Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, 

His own invented torments. — But perhaps 

The way seems difficult, and steep to scale 

With upright wing against a higher foe. 

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 

Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 

That in our proper motion we ascend 

Up to our native seat : descent and fall 

To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 

When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear 

Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 

With what compulsion and laborious fight 

We sunk thus low ! — The ascent is easy then : — 

The event is feared : — should we again provoke 

Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find 

To our destruction ; if there be in hell 

Fear to be worse destroyed. — What can be worse 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned 

In this abhorred deep to utter woe. milton. 



CASSIUS INSTIGATING BRUTUS AGAINST (LESAR. 

Honor is the subject of my story — 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you ; 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 65 

We have both fed as well ; and we can both 

Endure the winter's cold as well as he : 

For, once, upon a raw and gusty day, 

The troubled Tiber chafing with its shores, 

Caesar says to me, — " Barest thou, Cassius, now 

Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point ? " — Upon the word, 

Accoutered as I was, I plunged in, 

And bade him follow ; so indeed he did. 

The torrent roared, and we did buffet it ; 

With lusty sinews throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 

Caesar cried, — "Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 

I, as .iEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber, 

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body 

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
How he did shake : ' tis true, this god did shake ; 
His coward lips did from their color fly ; 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 
Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan, 
Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
" Alas ! " it cried — " Give me some drink, Titinius " — 
As a sick girl. 

Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. shakspeare. 



THE ADVENTURERS IN THE MAYFLOWER. 

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, 

the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of 

a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it 

pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious 

6 



66 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and 
winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight 
of the wished for shore. I see them now scantily supplied with 
provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, 
delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; — and now driven 
in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 
The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The 
laboring masts seem straining from their base ; — the dismal 
sound of the pumps is heard ; — the ship leaps, as it were, madly, 
from billow to billow ; — the ocean breaks, and settles with 
engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening 
weight against the staggering vessel. I see them, escaped from 
these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and 
landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks 
of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, — poorly 
armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their 
ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but 
water on shore, — without shelter, — without means, — sur- 
rounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, and 
tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the 
fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military 
science, in how many months were they all swept off by the 
thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New 
England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a 
colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, 
languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for 
me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned 
adventurers, of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was 
it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women 
and children ; was it hard labor and spare meals ; was it 
disease, — was it the tomahawk, — was it the deep malady of 
a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching 
in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, be- 
yond the sea ; was it some, or all of these united, that hurried 
this forsaken company to their melancholy fate ? And is it pos- 
sible, that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were 
able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible, that from a be- 
ginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration 
as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth 
so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled, 

SO glorious ? EVERETT. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 67 



HANNIBAL TO THE CARTHAGINIAN ARMY. 

On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of 
courage and strength. A veteran infantry ; a most gallant cav- 
alry : you, my allies most faithful and valiant ; you, Carthagini- 
ans, whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger 
impels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always 
greater than of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile 
banners displayed you are come down upon Italy : you bring 
the war. Grief, injuries, indignities, fire your minds, and spur 
you forward to revenge. First, they demanded me, that I, your 
general, should be delivered up to them ; next, of all you who 
had fought at the seige of Saguntum ; and we were to be put 
to death by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! 
Everything must be yours, and at your disposal. You are to 
prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we 
shall make peace. You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up 
within hills and rivers ; but you, you are not to observe the limits 
which yourselves have fixed ! " Pass not the Iberus." What 
next ? " Touch not the Saguntines ; Saguntum is upon the 
Iberus, move not a step toward that city." Is it a small matter 
then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily 
and Sardinia ? you would have Spain too. Well ; we shall yield 
Spain, and then — you will pass into Africa. Will pass, did I 
say ? — this very year they ordered one of their consuls into 
Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers ; there is nothing left 
to us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, 
then. Be men. The Romans may, with more safety, be cow- 
ards : they have their own country behind them, have places of 
refuge to fly to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; 
but, for you, there is no middle fortune between death and victory. 
Let this be but well fixed in your minds : and once again I say, 
you are conquerors. 



THE FOLLY OF DISUNION. 

Threats of resistance, secession, separation, have become 
common as household words, in the wicked and silly violence of 
public declaimers. The public ear is familiarized, and the public 
mind will soon be accustomed to the detestable suggestions of 
disunion I Calculations and conjectures, what may the East do 
without the South, and what may the South do without the East, 



OS NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

sneers, menaces, reproaches, and recriminations, all tend to the 
same fatal end ! What can the East do without the South ? 
What can the South do without the East ? They may do much ; 
they may exhibit to the curiosity of political anatomists, and the 
pity and wonder of the world, the " disjecta membra" the sun- 
dered and bleeding limbs of a once gigantic body instinct with 
life, and strength, and vigor. They can furnish to the philo- 
sophic historian another melancholy and striking instance of the 
political axiom, that all republican confederacies have an inherent 
and unavoidable tendency to dissolution. They will present 
fields and occasions for border wars, for leagues and counter- 
leagues, for the intrigues of petty statesmen, the struggles of 
military chiefs, for confiscations, insurrections, and deeds of 
darkest hue. They will gladden the hearts of those who have 
proclaimed that men are not fit to govern themselves, and shed 
a disastrous eclipse on the hopes of rational freedom throughout 
the world. Solon, in his code, proposed no punishment for 
parricide, treating it as an impossible crime. Such, with us, 
ought to be the crime of political parricide — the dismember- 
ment of our "father-land." 

Surely, such a country and such a constitution, have claims 
upon you, my friends, which cannot be disregarded. I entreat 
and adjure you, then, by all that is near and dear to you on 
earth, by all the obligations of patriotism, by the memory of 
your fathers, who fell in the great and glorious struggle, for the 
sake of your sons, whom you would not have to blush for your 
degeneracy, by all your proud recollections of the past, and all 
your fond anticipations of the future renown of our nation 
— preserve that country, uphold that constitution. Resolve 
that they shall not be lost while in your keeping, and may God 
Almighty strengthen you to perform that vow. gaston. 



PHILLIPS ON THE CATHOLIC QUESTIOxV. 

The pope, whom childhood was taught to lisp as the enemy 
of religion, and age shuddered at as a prescriptive calamity, has, 
by his example, put the princes of Christendom to shame. 
This day of miracles, in which the human heart has been strung 
to its extremest point of energy — this day, to which posterity 
will look for instances of every crime and every virtue, holds not 
in its page of wonders a more sublime phenomenon than that 
calumniated pontiff. Placed at the very pinnacle of human 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 69 

elevation, surrounded by the pomp of the Vatican and the splen- 
dor of the court, pouring the mandates of Christ from the throne 
of the Caesars, nations were his subjects, kings were his com- 
panions, religion was his handmaid ; he went forth gorgeous with 
the accumulated dignity of ages, every knee bending, and every 
eye blessing the prince of one world and the prophet of another. 
Have we not seen him, in one moment, his crown crumbled, his 
sceptre a reed, his throne a shadow, his home a dungeon ! But 
if we have, Catholics, it was- only to show how inestimable is 
human virtue compared with human grandeur ; it was only to 
show those whose faith was failing, and whose fears were 
strengthening, that the simplicity of the patriarchs, the piety of 
the saints, and the patience of the martyrs, had not wholly van- 
ished. Perhaps it was also ordained to show the bigot at home, 
as well as the tyrant abroad, that though the person might be 
chained, and the motive calumniated, religion was still strong- 
enough to support her sons, and to confound, if she could not 
reclaim, her enemies. No threats could awe, no promises could 
tempt, no sufferings could appal him ; mid the damps of his 
dungeon he dashed away the cup in which the pearl of his lib- 
erty was to be dissolved. Only reflect on the state of the world 
at that moment ! All around him was convulsed, the very 
foundations of the earth seemed giving way, the comet was let 
loose that " from its fiery hair shook pestilence and death," the 
twilight was gathering, the tempest was roaring, the darkness 
was at hand ; but he towered sublime, like the last mountain in 
the deluge — majestic, not less in his elevation than in his solitude, 
immutable amid change, magnificent amid ruin, the last rem- 
nant of earth's beauty, the last resting place of heaven's fight ! 
Thus have the terrors of the Vatican retreated ; thus has that 
cloud which hovered over your cause brightened at once into a 
sign of your faith and an assurance of your victory. 



CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, 
which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown 
terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, 
and peculiar, he sat upon the throne a sceptred hermit, wrapt 
in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, 
and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates — an energy that 
distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of 



70 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character — the 
most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the annals of this world, 
ever rose, or reigned, or fell. Flung into life, in the midst of a 
revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowl- 
edge no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, 
and a scholar by charity ! With no friend but his sword, and no 
fortune but his talents, he rushed in the list where rank, and 
wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled 
from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive 
but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — he 
worshiped no God but ambition, and with an eastern devotion he 
knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was 
no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion that he 
did not promulgate ; in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the 
crescent ; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross : 
the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the 
republic : and with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both 
of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his 
despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the pope ; a pre- 
tended patriot, he impoverished the country ; and in the name of 
Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, 
the diadem of the Caesars ! phillips. 



A CALL TO LIBERTY. 



None but they, who set a just value upon the blessings of 
liberty, are worthy to enjoy her. Your illustrious fathers were 
her zealous votaries — when the blasting frowns of tyranny drove 
her from public view, they clasped her in their arms ; they cher- 
ished her in their generous bosoms ; they brought her safe over 
the rough ocean, and fixed her seat in this then dreary wilder- 
ness : they nursed her infant age with the most tender care ; for 
her sake, they patiently bore the severest hardships ; for her 
support, they underwent the most rugged toils ; in her defense, 
they boldly encountered the most alarming dangers. Neither the 
ravenous beasts that ranged the woods for prey, nor the more 
furious savages of the wilderness, could damp their ardor ! 
Whilst with one hand they broke the stubborn glebe, with the 
other they grasped their weapons, ever ready to protect her from 
danger. No sacrifice, not even their own blood, was esteemed 
too rich a libation for her altar ! God prospered their valor ; 
they preserved her brilliancy unsullied ; they enjoyed her whilst 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 71 

they lived, and dying, bequeathed the dear inheritance to your 
care. And as they left you this glorious legacy, they have un- 
doubtedly transmitted to you some portion of their noble spirit, 
to inspire you with virtue to merit her, and courage to pre- 
serve her. You surely cannot, with such examples before your 
eyes as every page of the history of this country affords, suffer 
your liberties to be ravished from you by lawless force, or cajoled 
away by flattery and fraud. 

The voice of your fathers' blood calls to you from the ground, 
My sons, scorn to be slaves ! In vain we met the frowns of 
tyrants — in vain we crossed the boisterous ocean, found a new 
world, and prepared it for the happy residence of liberty — in 
vain we toiled — in vain we fought — we bled in vain, if you, 
our offspring, want valor to repel the assaults of her invaders ! 
Stain not the glory of your worthy ancestors, but, like them, 
resolve never to part with your birthright ; be wise in your 
deliberations, and determined in your exertions for the preserva- 
tion of your liberties. warren. 



THE SPEECH OF LOGAN THE INDIAN CHIEF. 

" My cabin, since I had one of my own, has ever been open 
to any white man who wanted shelter. My spoils of hunting, 
since first I began to range these woods, have I ever imparted 
to appease his hunger, to clothe his nakedness. But what have 
I seen? What! — but that at my return at night, laden with 
spoil, my numerous family lie bleeding on the ground by the 
hand of those who had found my little hut a certain refuge from 
the storm, who had eaten my food, who had covered themselves 
with my skins. What have I seen ? What ! — but that those 
dear little mouths for which I had all day toiled, when I returned 
to fill them, had not one word to thank me for all that toil. 

" What could I resolve upon ? My blood boiled within me. 
My heart leaped to my mouth ! Nevertheless I bid my toma- 
hawk be quiet and lie at rest for that war, because I thought the 
great men of your country sent them not to do it. Not long 
after, some of your men invited our tribe to cross the river and 
bring their venison with them. They came as they had been 
invited. The white men made them drunk, murdered them, and 
turned their knives even against the women. Was not my own 
sister among them ? Was she not scalped by the hands of the 
very man whom she had taught to escape his enemies, when 



72 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

they were scenting out his track ? What could I resolve upon ? 
My blood boiled thrice hotter than before. Thrice again my 
heart leaped to my mouth. I bade no longer my tomahawk be 
quiet and rest for that war. 

" I sprang from my cabin to avenge their blood, and fully 
have I done it in this war, by shedding yours, from your coldest 
to your hottest sun. I am now for peace — to peace have I 
advised most of my countrymen. Nay, what is more, I have 
offered, I will offer myself a victim, being ready to die if their 
good requires it. Think not that I fear death. I have no rela- 
tives left to mourn for me. Logan's blood runs in no veins but 
these. I would not turn on my heel to save my life ; and why 
should I ? For I have neither wife nor child nor sister to howl 
for me when I am gone." 

Gone is the mighty warrior, the terrible avenger, the heart- 
bursting orator. Gone is the terror and glory of his nation ; 
and gone forever from our elder states, are the red men, who, 
like Saul and Jonathan, were " swifter than eagles, and stronger 
than lions," and who with the light and advantages which we 
enjoy, might have rivaled us in wealth and power — ■ in the sen- 
ate and forum, — as I am sure that they would have surpassed 
us in magnanimity and justice. Humphrey. 



THE WRONGS OF THE INDIAN RACE. 

If the Indians had the vices of savage life, they had the vir- 
tues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and 
their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget 
kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and 
generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, 
stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they ? 
Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth ? The sachems 
and the tribes ? The hunters and their families ? They have 
perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not 
alone done the mighty work. No, — nor famine, nor war. 
There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath 
eaten into their heart-cores — a plague which the touch of the 
white man communicated — a poison, which betrayed them into 
a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single 
region which they may now call their own. Already the last 
feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey 
beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 73 

the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, " few and 
faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native 
hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. 
They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is 
upon their heels, for terror or dispatch ; but they heed him not. 
They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They 
cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed 
no tears ; they utter no cries ; they heave no groans. There is 
something in their hearts which passes speech. There is some- 
thing in their looks, not of vengeance or submission ; but of hard 
necessity, which stifles both ; which choaks all utterance ; which 
has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They 
linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have 
passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, — 
no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impass- 
able gulf. They know, and feel, that there is for them still one 
remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is the general burial- 
ground of their race. storv. 



AMES' SPEECH ON THE BRITISH TREATY. 

On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If 1 could find 
words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I 
would swell my voice to such a note of remonstrance, it should 
reach every log-house beyond the mountains. I would say to 
the inhabitants, wake from your false security. Your cruel dan- 
gers, your more cruel apprehensions, are soon to be renewed. 
The wounds yet unhealed are to be torn open again. In the 
day-time, your path through the woods will be ambushed. The 
darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwell- 
ings. You are a father — the blood of your sons shall fatten 
your corn-field. You are a mother — the war-whoop shall wake 
the sleep of the cradle. 

On this subject you need not suspect any deception on your 
feelings. It is a spectacle of horror which cannot be overdrawn. 
If you have nature in your hearts, they will speak a language 
compared with which all I have said or can say will be poor and 
frigid. 

Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject ? Who 

will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our measures ? Will 

any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle preaching ? 

Would any one deny that we are bound, and I would hope to 

7 



74 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty for the vote 
we give ? Are despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling 
indifference to the tears and blood of their subjects ? Are repub- 
licans unresponsible ? Have the principles on which you ground 
the reproach upon cabinets and kings no practical influence, no 
binding force ? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, 
introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to 
furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that state 
house ! I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late to 
ask, Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk, without 
guilt and without remorse ? 

By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the 
victims. This day we undertake to render account to the widows 
and orphans whom our decision will make, to the wretches that 
will be roasted at the stake, to our country, and I do not deem 
it too serious to say, to conscience and to God. We are answer- 
able ; and if duty be anything more than a word of imposture, 
if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make our- 
selves as wretched as our country. 



THE RIGHT OF ENGLAND TO TAX AMERICA. 

" But, Mr. Speaker, we have a right to tax America. " Oh, 
inestimable right ! Oh, wonderful, transcendent right ! the asser- 
tion of which has cost this country thirteen provinces, six islands, 
one hundred thousand lives, and seventy millions of money. Oh, 
invaluable right ! for the sake of which we have sacrificed our 
rank among nations, our importance abroad, and our happiness 
at home ! Oh, right ! more dear to us than our existence, which 
has already cost us so much, and which seems likely to cost us 
our all. Infatuated man ! miserable and undone country ! not 
to know that the claim of right, without the power of enforcing 
it, is nugatory and idle. We have a right to tax America, the 
noble lord tells us, therefore we ought to tax America. This is 
the profound logic which comprises the whole chain of his rea- 
soning. 

Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who resolved to shear 
the wolf. What, shear a wolf ! Have you considered the resist- 
ance, the difficulty, the danger of the attempt ? No, says the 
madman, I have considered nothing but the right. Man has a 
right of dominion over the beasts of the forest ; and therefore I 
will shear the wolf. How wonderful that a nation could be thus 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 75 

deluded. But the noble lord deals in cheats and delusions. 
They are the daily traffic of his invention ; and he will continue 
to play off his cheats on this house, so long as he thinks them 
necessary to his purpose, and so long as he has money enough 
at command to bribe gentlemen to pretend that they believe him. 
But a black and bitter day of reckoning will surely come ; and 
whenever that day comes, I trust I shall be able, by a parlia- 
mentary impeachment, to bring upon the heads of the authors 
of our calamities the punishment they deserve. burke. 



SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS. 

The eulogium pronounced on the character of the state of 
South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, for her revolu- 
tionary and other merits, meets my hearty concurrence. I shall 
not acknowledge that the honorable member goes before me in 
regard for whatever of distinguished talent, or distinguished 
character, South Carolina has produced. I claim part of the 
honor, I partake in the pride of her great names. I claim them 
for countrymen, one and all. The Laurenses, the Rutledges, the 
Pinckneys, the Sumpters, the Marions — Americans all — whose 
fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents 
and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the 
same narrow limits. 

In their day and generation, they served and honored the 
country, and the whole country, and their renown is of the 
treasures of the whole country. Him, whose honored name the 
gentleman himself bears — does he suppose me less capable of 
gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than 
if his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, 
instead of South Carolina ? Sir, does he suppose it in his power 
to exhibit a Carolina name so bright, as to produce envy in my 
bosom ? No, sir, — increased gratification and delight, rather. 
Sir, I thank God, that if I am gifted with little of the spirit 
which is said to be able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet 
none, as I trust, of that other spirit which would drag angels 
down. 

When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or 
elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because it happened to spring 
up beyond the little limits of my own state or neighborhood ; 
when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage 
due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion 



76 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

to liberty and; the country ; or if I see an uncommon endow- 
ment of heaven — if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in 
any son of the South — and if, moved by local prejudice, or 
gangrened by state jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of 
a hair from his just character and just fame, may my tongue 
cleave to the roof of my mouth ! webster. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massa- 
chusetts — she needs none. There she is — behold her and 
judge for yourselves. There is her history — the world knows 
it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and 
Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will 
remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the great 
struggle for independence, now he mingled with the soil of every 
b^*te, from New England to Georgia ; and there they will he 
forever. 

And, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and 
where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, 
in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If 
discord and disunion shall wound it — if party strife and blind 
ambition shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if 
uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed 
to separate it from that Union by which alone its existence is 
made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in 
which its infancy was rocked ; it will stretch forth its arm with 
whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gather 
round it ; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proud- 
est monuments of its own glory, and on the very spot of its 
origin. webster. 



LORD STANHOPE ON NEUTRAL RIGHTS. 

The right honorable members of this house must recollect, 
that in times of scarcity, our principal relief was derived, first 
from Poland, next from America. Poland is now shut against 
us by the influence of our enemy, and shall we also shut against 
us the ports of America, by our own folly ! If, my lords, the 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 77 

ministers are bent on this dreadful alternative, it needs not the 
spirit of prophecy, neither need we turn over the leaves of fate's 
eventful volume, to know what will be the consequence. If the 
Baldc is closed against you, if by the frantic and transient energy 
of intoxicated rage, you should shut the ports of America on 
your commerce, whence are you to derive materials and stores 
for your naval arsenals, 'if the north of Europe and North 
America are to refuse us these supplies. Do you not, my lords, 
plainly discover, for I trust you have not yet to learn, that your 
enemy has been carrying on a war against your finances and 
resources. To what seas will you waffc your commerce ; from 
whence will your resources be derived, what will become of the 
greatness and security of England, when our navy, the source 
of our pride, the source of our strength and wealth, is gone ? 
Are not these serious considerations ? Do they not demand 
your most serious attention ? Do they not require your cool and 
candid discussion ? Where is the minister — who is the minister 
that will dare to pollute the ear of majesty with the name of war 
with America ? Why are they not here this day to answer for 
themselves; to point out to us their future resources? I will 
now only remark, that as all individuals, whether high or low, 
poor or rich, are the same in the eye of Almighty God ; so 
nations, whether extremely powerful or weak, whether opulent 
or poor, should be the same in the contemplation of the law of 
nations. This, then, my lords, is the principle upon which my 
mind rests, and upon which I ground the resolution I have now to 
move, and as I have the pleasing satisfaction to see every attention 
paid to the few serious and searching remarks that I have just 
made — I move, my lords, that this day, in the presence of God 
and man, it be resolved that the principle upon which we shall act 
toward independent nations at peace with the British government, 
shall be a principle of perfect equality and complete reciprocity. 



CHATHAM ON THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

I cannot, my lords, I will not join in congratulation on mis- 
fortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremen- 
dous moment : it is not a time for adulation : the smoothness of 
flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now 
necessary to instruct the throne, in the language of truth. We 
must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelop 
it ; and display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin 



78 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to 
expect support in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so dead 
to its dignity and duty as to give their support to measures 
thus obtruded and forced upon them — measures, my lords, 
which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and con- 
tempt. But yesterday, " and England might have stood against 
the world — now, none so poor to do her reverence." The peo- 
ple we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge 
as enemies, are abetted against you, supplied with every military 
store, their interests consulted, and their embassadors entertained 
by your inveterate enemy ; and our ministers do not, and dare 
not, interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our 
army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems 
and honors the English troops than I do : I know their virtue 
and their valor : I know they can achieve anything except 
impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English 
America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, you can- 
not conquer America. What is your present situation there ? 
We do not know the worst, but we know that in three cam- 
paigns we have done nothing, and suffered much. You may 
swell every expense, and strain every effort, accumulate every 
assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every 
German despot ; your attempts forever will be vain and impo- 
tent ; doubly so indeed from this mercenary aid on which you 
rely ; for it irritates to an incurable resentment the minds of 
your adversaries to overrun them with the mercenary sons of 
rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the 
rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an 
Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I 
never would lay down my arms — never ! never ! never ! 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 

My lords, who is the man, that in addition to the disgraces 
and mischiefs of war, has dared to authorize and associate to our 
arms the tomahawk and scalping knife of the savage — to call into 
civilized alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods ? 
— to delegate to the merciless Indian the defense of disputed 
rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our 
brethren ? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and 
punishment. Familiarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, 
our army can no longer boast of the noble and generous princi- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 79 

pies which dignify a soldier. No longer are their feelings awake 
to "the pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war;" — 
but the sense of honor is degraded into a vile spirit of plunder, 
and the systematic practice of murder. From the ancient con- 
nection between Great Britain and her colonies, both parties 
derived the most important advantage. While the shield of our 
protection was extended over America, she was the fountain of 
our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the basis of our power. 
It is not, my lords, a wild and lawless bantitti whom we oppose ; 
•the resistance of America is the struggle of free and virtuous 
patriots. Let us then seize with eagerness the present moment 
of reconciliation. America has not yet finally given herself up 
to France ; there yet remains a possibility of escape from the 
fatal effect of our delusions. In this complicated crisis of dan- 
ger, weakness, and calamity, terrified and insulted by the 
neighboring powers, unable to act in America, or acting only to 
be destroyed, where is the man who will venture to natter us 
with the hope of success from the perseverance in measures pro- 
ductive of these dire effects ? Who has the effrontery to attempt 
it ? Where is that man ? Let him, if he dare, stand forward 
and show his face. You cannot conciliate America by your 
present measures : you cannot subdue her by your present or 
any measures. What then can you do ? You cannot con- 
quer, you cannot gain ; but you can address the king. Yes, 
my lords, since they have neither sagacity to foresee, nor jus- 
tice, nor humanity to shun those calamities — since not even 
bitter experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of 
their country awaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian 
care of parliament must interpose. 



THE IRISH DISTURBANCE BILL. 

I do not rise to fawn or cringe to this house ; I do not rise to 
supplicate you to be merciful toward the nation to which I be- 
long — toward a nation which, though subject to England, yet 
is distinct from it. It is a distinct nation : it has been treated 
as such by this country, as may be proved by. history, and by 
seven hundred years of tyranny. I call upon this house, as you 
value the liberty of England, not to allow the present nefarious 
bill to pass. In it are involved the liberties of England, the 
liberty of the press, and of every other institution dear to 
Englishmen. 



80 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Against the bill I protest in the name of the Irish people, and 
in the face of heaven. I treat with scorn the puny and pitiful 
assertions that grievances are not to be complained of, that our 
redress is not to be agitated ; for, in such cases, remonstances 
cannot be too strong, agitation cannot be too violent, to show to 
the world with what injustice our fair claims are met, and under 
what tyranny the people suffer. 

There are two frightful clauses in this bill. The one which 
does away with trial by jury, and which I have called upon you 
to baptize : you call it a court-martial, — a mere nickname ; I 
stigmatize it as a revolutionary tribunal. What, in the name of 
heaven, is it, if it is not a revolutionary tribunal ? It annihi- 
lates the trial by jury ; it drives the judge from his bench, — 
the man who, from experience, could weigh the nice and deli- 
cate points of a case, — who could discriminate between the 
straightforward testimony and the suborned evidence, — who 
could see, plainly and readily, the justice or injustice of the 
accusation. It turns out this man who is free, unshackled, 
unprejudiced, — who has no previous opinions to control the 
clear exercise of his duty. You do away with that which is 
more sacred than the throne itself; that for which your king 
reigns, your lords deliberate, your commons assemble. 

If ever I doubted before of the success of our agitation for 
repeal, this bill, this infamous bill, the way in which it has been 
received by the house, the manner in which its opponents have 
been treated, the personalities to which they have been sub- 
jected, the yells with which one of them has this night been 
greeted, — all these things dissipate my doubts, and tell me of 
its complete and early triumph. Do you think those yells will 
be forgotten ? Do you suppose their echo will not reach the 
plains of my injured and insulted country ; that they will not 
be whispered in her green valleys, and heard from her lofty 
hills ? Oh ! they will be heard there : yes, and they will not 
be forgotten. The youth of Ireland will bound with indigna- 
tion ; they will say, "We are eight millions ; and you treat us 
thus, as though we were no more to your country than the isle 
of Guernsey or of Jersey !" 

I have done my duty ; I stand acquitted to my conscience 
and my country ; I have opposed this measure throughout ; 
and I now protest against it as harsh, oppressive, uncalled for, 
unjust ; as establishing an infamous precedent by retaliating 
crime against crime ; as tyrannous, cruelly and vindictively 
tyrannous. daniel o'connell. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 81 



BRITISH INFLUENCE. 

Against whom are these charges of British predilection 
brought ? Against men who, in the war of the revolution, were 
in the councils of the nation, or fighting the battles of your 
country. 

Strange, that we should have no objection to any other people 
or government, civilized or savage, in the whole world ! The 
great autocrat of all the Russias receives the homage of our 
high consideration. The dey of Algiers and his divan of pirates 
are a very civil, good sort of people, with whom we find no 
difficulty in maintaining the relations of peace and amity. 
" Turks, Jews, and Infidels," or the barbarians and savages of 
every clime and color, are welcome to our arms. With chiefs 
of banditti, negro or mulatto, we can treat and can trade. 
Name, however, but England, and all our antipathies are up in 
arms against her. Against whom ? Against those whose blood 
runs in our veins ; in common with whom, we claim Shakspeare, 
and Newton, and Catham, for our countrymen ; whose govern- 
ment is the freest on earth, our own only excepted ; from whom 
every valuable principle of our own institutions has been bor- 
rowed — representation, trial by jury, voting the supplies, writ 
of habeas corpus — our whole civil and criminal jurisprudence. 
In what school did the worthies of our land, the Washingtons, 
Henrys, Hancocks, Franklins, Rutledges, of America, learn those 
principles of civil liberty which were so nobly asserted by their 
wisdom and valor ? American resistance to British usurpation 
has not been more warmly cherished by these great men and 
their compatriots — not more by Washington, Hancock, and 
Henry — than by Catham and his illustrious associates in the 
British parliament. 

It ought to be remembered, too, that the heart of the English 
people was with us. It was a selfish and corrupt ministry, and 
their servile tools, to whom we were not more opposed than they 
were. I trust that none such may ever exist among us ; for 
tools will never be wanting to subserve the purposes, however 
ruinous or wicked, of kings and ministers of state. I acknowl- 
edge the influence of a Shakspeare and a Milton upon my imag- 
ination, of a Locke upon my understanding, of a Sidney upon 
my political principles, of a Chatham upon qualities which, would 
to God, I possessed in common with that illustrious man ! This 
is a British influence which I can never shake off. 

JOHN RANDOLPH. 



82 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



WEBSTER'S REPLY TO HAYNE. 

I am not one of those, sir, who esteem any tribute of regard, 
whether light and occasional, or more serious and deliberate, 
which may be bestowed on others, as so much unjustly with- 
holden from themselves. But the tone and manner of the gen- 
tleman's question forbid me that I thus interpret it. I am not 
at liberty to consider it as nothing more than a civility to his 
friend. It had an air of taunt and disparagement, a little of the 
loftiness of asserted superiority, which does not allow me to 
pass it over without notice. It was put as a question for me to 
answer, and so put, as if it were difficult for me to answer, 
whether I deemed the member from Missouri an overmatch for 
myself in debate here. It seems to me, sir, that this is extra- 
ordinary language, and an extraordinary tone, for the discus- 
sions of this body. 

Matches and overmatches ! Those terms are more applica- 
ble elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies than this. 
Sir, the gentleman seems to forget where and what we are. 
This is a senate : a senate of equals : of men of individual honor 
and personal character, and of absolute independence. We know 
no masters ; we acknowledge no dictators. This is a hall of mu- 
tual consultation and discussion ; not an arena for the exhibition 
of champions. I offer myself, sir, as a match for no man ; I 
throw the challenge of debate at no man's feet. But then, sir, 
since the honorable member has put the question, in a manner 
that calls for an answer, I will give him an answer ; and I tell 
him, that holding myself to be the humblest of the members here, 
I yet know nothing in the arm of his friend from Missouri, either 
alone, or when aided by the arm of his friend from South Car- 
olina, that need deter even me from espousing whatever opinions 
I may choose to espouse, from debating whenever I may choose 
to debate, or from speaking whatever I may see fit to say, on the 
floor of the senate. Sir, when uttered as matter of commenda- 
tion or compliment, I should dissent from nothing which the 
honorable member might say of his friend. Still less do I put 
forth any pretensions of my own. But, when put to me as a 
matter of taunt, I throw it back, and say to the gentleman that 
he could possibly say nothing less likely than such a comparison 
to wound my pride of personal character. The anger of its tone 
rescued the remark from intentional irony, which otherwise, 
probably, would have been its general acceptation. But, sir, if 
it be imagined that by this mutual quotation and commendation ; 
if it be supposed, that by casting the characters of the drama, 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 83 

assigning to each his part ; to one the attack, to another the 
cry of onset : or if it be thought that by a loud and empty vaunt 
of anticipated victory, any laurels are to be won here ; if it be 
imagined, especially, that any or all of these things will shake 
any purpose of mine, I can tell the honorable member, once for 
all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with one 
of whose temper and character he has yet much to learn. Sir, 
I shall not allow myself, on this occasion, to be betrayed into 
any loss of temper ; but if provoked, as I trust I never shall 
allow myself to be, into crimination and recrimination, the hon- 
orable member may perhaps find, that, in that contest, there will 
be blows to take as well as blows to give ; that others can state 
comparisons as significant at least as his own, and that his impu- 
nity may, perhaps, demand of him whatever powers of taunt and 
sarcasm he may possess. I commend him to a prudent hus- 
bandry of his resources. 



REPLY TO MR. WEBSTER, IN SENATE, 1830. 

When I took occasion, Mr. President, two days ago, to throw 
out some ideas with respect to the policy of the government in 
relation to the public lands, nothing certainly could have been 
farther from my thoughts, than that I should be compelled again 
to throw myself upon the indulgence of the senate. Little did I 
expect to be called upon to meet such an argument as was yes- 
terday urged by the gentleman from Massachusetts. Sir, I ques- 
tioned no man's opinions — I impeached no man's motives — I 
charged no party or state, or section of country, with hostility to 
any other ; but ventured, I thought, in a becoming spirit to put 
forth my own sentiments in relation to a great question of pub- 
lic policy. Such was my course. The gentleman from Missouri, 
it is true, had charged upon the eastern states an early and con- 
tinued hostility toward the West, and referred to a number of 
historical facts and documents in support of that charge. Now, 
sir, how have these different arguments been met ? The honor- 
able gentleman from Massachusetts, after deliberating a whole 
night upon his course, comes into this chamber to vindicate New 
England ; and instead of making up his issue with the gentle- 
man from Missouri, on the charges which he had preferred, 
chooses to consider me as the author of those charges, and los- 
ing sight entirely of that gentleman, selects me as his adversary, 
and pours out all the vials of his mighty wrath upon my devoted 



84 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

head. Nor is he willing to stop there. He goes on to assail the 
institutions and policy of the South, and calls in question the 
principles and conduct of the state which I have the honor, in 
part, to represent. When I find a gentleman of mature age and 
experience, of acknowledged talents and profound sagacity, pur- 
suing a course like this, declining the contest offered him from 
the West, and making war upon the unoffending South, I must 
believe — I am bound to believe — he has some object in view 
that he has not ventured to disclose. Mr. President, why is this ? 
Has the gentleman discovered in former controversies with the 
gentleman from Missouri, that he is overmatched by that sena- 
tor ? And does he hope for an easy victory over a more feeble 
adversary ? Has the gentleman's distempered fancy been dis- 
turbed by gloomy forebodings of "new alliances to be formed, " 
at which he hinted ? Has the ghost of the murdered coalition 
come back, like the ghost of Banquo, to "sear the eyeballs " of 
the gentleman, and will it not "down at his bidding?" Are 
dark visions of broken hopes, and honors lost forever, still float- 
ing before his heated imagination ? Sir, if it be his object to 
thrust me between the gentleman from Missouri and himself, in 
order to rescue the East from the contest which it has provoked 
with the West, he shall not be gratified. Sir, I will not be drag- 
ged into the defense of my friend from Missouri ! The South 
shall not be forced into a conflict not its own. The gentleman 
from Missouri is able to fight his own battles. The gallant West 
needs no aid from the South, to repel any attack which may be 
made on it from any quarter. Let the gentleman from Massa- 
chusetts controvert the facts and arguments of the gentleman 
from Missouri, if he can ; and if he win the victory, let him 
wear his honors ; I shall not deprive him of his laurels. 

HAYNE. 



SPECIMEN OF THE ELOQUENCE OF JAMES OTIS. 

England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile with bul- 
rushes, as to fetter the step of freedom, more proud and firm in 
this youthful land, than where she treads the sequestered glens 
of Scotland, or couches herself among the magnificent mount- 
ains of Switzerland. Arbitrary principles, like those against 
which we now contend, have cost one king of England his life — 
another his crown — and they may yet cost a third his most 
flourishing colonies. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 85 

We are two millions — one-fifth fighting men. We are bold 
and vigorous, and we call no man master. To the nation, from 
whom we are proud to derive our origin, we were ever, and we 
ever will be, ready to yield unforced assistance ; but it must not, 
and it never can be extorted. 

Some have sneeringly asked, "Are the Americans too poor to 
pay a few pounds on stamped paper ? " So ! America, thanks 
to God and herself, is rich. But the right to take ten pounds, 
implies the right to take a thousand ; and what must be the 
wealth, that avarice, aided by power, cannot exhaust. True, 
the spectre is now small ; but the shadow he casts before him is 
huge enough to darken all this fair land. Others, in sentimental 
style, talk of the immense debt of gratitude which we owe to 
England. And what is the amount of this debt ? Why, truly, 
it is the same that the young lion owes to the dam, which has 
brought it forth on the solitude of the mountain, or left it amid 
the winds and storms of the desert. 

We plunged into the wave, with the great charter of freedom 
in our teeth, because the faggot and torch were behind us. We 
have waked this new world from its savage lethargy; forests 
have been prostrated in our path ; towns and cities have grown 
up suddenly as the flowers of the tropics ; and the fires in our 
autumnal woods are scarcely more rapid than the increase of our 
wealth and population. And do we owe all this to the kind suc- 
cor of the mother country ? No ! we owe it to the tyranny that 
drove us from her — to the pelting storms which invigorated our 
helpless infancy. 

But perhaps others will say, " We ask no money from your 
gratitude — we only demand that you should pay your own 
expenses." And who, I pray, is to judge of their necessity ? 
Why, the king — (and with all due reverence to his sacred 
majesty, he understands the real wants of his distant subjects as 
little as he does the language of the Choctaws.) Who is to judge 
concerning the frequency of these demands ? The ministry. 
Who is to judge whether the money is properly expended ? The 
cabinet behind the throne. In every instance, those who take 
are to judge for those who pay. If this system is suffered to go 
into operation, we shall have reason to esteem it a great privi- 
lege, that rain and dew do not depend upon parliament ; other- 
wise they would soon be taxed and dried. 

But thanks to God, there is freedom enough left upon earth to 
resist such monstrous injustice. The flame of liberty is extin- 
guished in Greece and Rome, but the light of its glowing embers 
is still bright and strong on the shores of America. Actuated 
by its sacred influence, we will resist unto death. But we will 



86 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

not countenance anarchy and misrule. The wrongs, that a des- 
perate community have heaped upon their enemies, shall be 
amply and speedily repaired. Still, it may be well for some 
proud men to remember, that a fire is lighted in these colonies, 
which one breath of their king may kindle into such fury, that 
the blood of all England cannot extinguish it. 



GOD'S REBUKE TO JOB. 



Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, 
Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowl- 



Gird up now thy loins like a man ; for I will demand of thee, 
and answer thou me. 

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth ? 
declare, if thou hast understanding. 

Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest ? or who 
hath stretched the line upon it ? 

Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened ? or who laid 
the corner-stone thereof? 

When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of 
God shouted for joy ? 

Or who shut up the sea with doors, when it break forth, as if 
it had issued out of the womb ? 

When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick dark- 
ness a swaddling band for it, 

And brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors, 

And said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther : and here 
shall thy proud waves be stayed ? 

Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the 
bands of Orion ? 

Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season ? or canst thou 
guide Arcturus with his sons ? 

Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven ? canst thou set the 
dominion thereof in the earth ? 

Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of 
waters may cover thee ? 

Canst thou send lightnings that they may go, and say unto 
thee, Here we are ? 

Who hath sent out the wild ass free ? or who hath loosed the 
bands of the wild ass ? 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 87 

Whose house I have made the wilderness, and the barren land 
his dwellings. 

He scorneth the multitude of the city, neither regardeth he 
the crying of the driver. 

The range of the mountains is his pasture, and he searcheth 
after every green thing. 

Hast thou given the horse strength ? hast thou clothed his 
neck with thunder ? 

Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper ? the glory of 
his nostrils is terrible. 

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength : he 
goeth on to meet the armed men. 

He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted ; neither turneth he 
back from the sword. 

The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the 
shield. 

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage : neither 
believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. 

He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha ; and he smelleth the 
battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting. 

Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings 
toward the south ? 

Doth the eagle mount up at thy command, and make her nest 
on high ? 

She dwelleth and abideth on the rock, upon the crag of the 
rock, and the strong place. 

From thence she seeketh the prey, and her eyes behold afar off. 

Her young ones also suck up blood : and where the slain are, 
there is she. 



CHATHAM'S REPLY TO HILLSBOROUGH. 

This is the second time that I have been interrupted. I sub- 
mit it to your lordships whether this be fair and candid treatment. 
I am sure it is contrary to the orders of the house, and a gross 
violation of decency and politeness. I listen to every noble lord 
in this house with attention and respect. The noble lord's 
design in interrupting me, is as mean and unworthy, a« the man- 
ner in which he has done it is irregular and disorderly. He 
flatters himself that, by breaking the thread of my discourse, 
he shall confuse me in my argument. But, my lords, I will not 
submit to this treatment. I will not be interrupted. When I 



88 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

have concluded, let him answer me if he can. As to the word 
which he has denied, I still affirm, that it was the word he made 
use of ; but if he had used any other, I am sure every noble 
lord will agree with me that his meaning was exactly what I 
had expressed it. Whether he said course or train is indifferent. 
He told your lordships that the negotiation was in a way that 
promised a happy and honorable conclusion. His distinctions 
are mean, frivolous, and puerile. My lords, I do not understand 
the exalted tone assumed by that noble lord. In the distress 
and weakness of this country, my lords, and conscious as the 
ministry ought to be how much they have contributed to that 
distress and weakness, I think a tone of modesty, of submission, 
of humility, would become them better ; qimdam causae modestiam 
desiderant. Before this country they stand as the greatest crim- 
inals. Such I shall prove them to be : for I do not doubt of 
proving to your lordships' satisfaction, that since they have been 
intrusted with the conduct of the king's affairs, they have done 
everything that they ought not to have done, and hardly anything 
that they ought to have done. 



THE FEDERAL UNION. 



I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in 
view the prosperity and the honor of the whole country, and 
the preservation of the Federal Union. I have not allowed my- 
self to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in 
the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances 
of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together 
shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang 
over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short 
sight, I can fathom the depths of the abyss below ; nor could I 
regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, 
whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how 
the Union should be preserved, but how tolerable might be the 
condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying pros- 
pects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond 
that, I seek not to penetrate the vail. God grant, that, in my 
day, at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant, that on my 
vision never may be opened what lies behind ! When my eyes 
shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, 
may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored frag- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION, 89 

ments of a once glorious Union ; on states dissevered, discordant, 
belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may 
be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance 
rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known 
and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its 
arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe 
erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its 
motto, no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth ? 
— nor those other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and 
Union afterward ; but everywhere spread all over in characters 
of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float over 
the sea, and over the land, and in every wind under the whole 
heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American 
heart: — Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and 

INSEPARABLE. WEBSTER. 



NECESSITY OF A PURE NATIONAL MORALITY. 

The crisis has come. By the people of this generation, by 
ourselves, probably, the amazing question is to be decided, — 
whether the inheritance of our fathers shall be preserved or 
thrown away ; whether our sabbaths shall be a delight or a 
loathing ; whether the taverns, on that holy day, shall be crowded 
with drunkards, or the sanctuary of God with humble worship- 
ers ; whether riot and profaneness shall fill our streets and 
poverty our dwellings, and convicts our jails, and violence our 
land ; or whether industry, and temperance, and righteousness, 
shall be the stability of our times ; whether mild laws shall re- 
ceive the cheerful submission of freemen, or the iron rod of a 
tyrant compel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived. 
The rocks and hills of ISFew England will remain till the last con- 
flagration. But let the sabbath be profaned with impunity, the 
worship of God be abandoned, the government and religious in- 
struction of children neglected, and the streams of intemperance 
be permitted to flow, and her glory will depart. The wall of 
fire will no longer surround her, and the munition of rocks will 
no longer be her defense. The hand that overturns our doors 
and temples, is the hand of death unbarring the gate of pande- 
monium, and letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries 
of hell. If the Most High should stand aloof and cast not a 
single ingredient into our cup of tembling, it would seem to be 
full of superlative woe. But he will not stand aloof. As we shall 
8 



90 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

have begun an open controversy with him, he will contend openly 
with us. And, never, since the earth stood, has it been so fear- 
ful a thing for nations to fall into the hands of the living: God. 
The day of vengeance is at hand ; the day of judgment has 
come ; the great earthquake which sinks Babylon is shaking the 
nations, and the waves of the mighty commotion are dashing 
upon every shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the founda- 
tions, when the earth itself is shaken ? Is this a time to forfeit 
the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failing them 
for fear, and for looking after those things which are to come 
upon the earth ? Is this a time to run upon his neck and the 
thick bosses of his buckler, when the nations are drinking blood, 
and fainting, and passing away in his wrath ? Is this a time to 
throw away the shield of faith, when his arrows are drunk with 
the blood of the slain ? — to cut from the anchor of hope, when 
the clouds are collecting, and the sea and the waves are roaring, 
and thunders are uttering , their voices, and lightnings blazing 
in the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon 
men, and every mountain, sea, and island, is fleeing in dismay 
from the face of an incensed God ! beecher. 



SELF-VINDICATION. 



Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dis- 
honor ! let no man attaint my memory, by believing that I could 
have engaged in any cause, but that of my country's liberty and 
independence ; or that I could have become the pliant minion 
of power, in the oppression or the miseries of my countrymen. 
The proclamation of the provisional government speaks for our 
views ; no inference can be tortured from it to countenance bar- 
barity or debasement at home, or subjection, humiliation, or 
treachery from abroad ; I would not have submitted to a foreign 
oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the foreign 
and domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom I would 
have fought upon the threshold of my country, and its enemy 
should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, 
who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself 
to the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor, and the 
bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, 
and my country her independence, — am I to be loaded with 
calumny, and not suffered to resent or repel it ? No — God 
forbid ! 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 91 

If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns 
and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, 
0, ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look 
down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and 
see if I have, even for a moment, deviated from those principles 
of morality and patriotism, which it was your care to instil into 
my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life ! 

My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice ; the blood which 
you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround 
your victim ; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the 
channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you 
are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to 
heaven. Be yet patient ! I have but a few words more to say : 
I am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of life is 
nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens to receive 
me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask 
at my departure from this world ; it is the charity of its silence ! 
Let no man write my epitaph ; for, as no man who knows my 
motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance 
asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, 
and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other 
men can do justice to my character. When my country takes 
her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, 
let my epitaph be written. robert emmet. 



REPLY TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. 

My lords, I am amazed ; yes, my lords, I am amazed at 
his grace's speech. The noble duke cannot look before him, 
behind him, or on either side of him, without seeing some noble 
peer, who owes his seat in this house to his successful exertions 
in the profession to which I belong. Does he not feel that it is 
as honorable to owe it to these, as to being the accident of an 
accident ? To all these noble lords, the language of the noble 
duke is as applicable and as insulting as it is to myself. But I do 
not fear to meet it single and alone. No one venerates the peer- 
age more than I do ; but, my lords, I must say, that the peerage 
solicited me, not I the peerage. 

Nay, more — I can say, and will say, that as a peer of parlia- 
ment, as speaker of this right honorable house, as keeper of the 
great seal, as guardian of his majesty's conscience, as lord high 
chancelor of England, nay, even in that character alone, in 



92 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

which the noble duke would think it an affront to be considered, 
but which character none can deny me — as a man, I am, at this 
time, as much respected as the proudest peer I now look down 
upon. THURLOW. 



THE PERFECT ORATOR. 



Imagine to yourselves a Demosthenes addressing the most 
illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate 
of the most illustrious of nations depended. — How awful such a 
meeting ! How vast the subject ! Is man possessed of talents 
adequate to the great occasion ? Adequate ? — yes, superior. 
By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly 
is lost in the dignity of the orator ; and the importance of the 
subject for a while superseded by the admiration of his talents. 
With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, 
with what emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate 
the whole man, and at once captivate his reason, his imagination, 
and his passions ! To effect this, must be the utmost effort of 
the most improved state of human nature. Not a faculty that 
he possesses is here unemployed ; not a faculty that he possesses 
but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers 
are at work ; and his external testify their energies. Within, the 
memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, are all busy ; 
without, every muscle, every nerve is exerted ; not a feature, 
not a limb but speak. The organs of the body, attuned to the 
exertions of the mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, 
instantaneously, as it were with an electrical spirit, vibrate those 
energies from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of 
minds in such a multitude, by the lightning of eloquence they 
are melted into one mass — the whole assembly, actuated in one 
and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but 
one voice. The universal cry is — " Let us march against Philip 
— let us fight for our liberties — let us conquer — or die." 

ANONYMOUS. 



ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Let us rejoice that we behold this day. Let us be thankful 
that we have lived to see the bright and happy breaking of the 
auspicious morn, which commences the third century of the his- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 93 

tory of New England. Auspicious indeed ; bringing a happiness 
beyond the common allotment of Providence to men; full of 
present joy, and gilding with bright beams the prospect of futur- 
ity, is the dawn that awakens us to the commemoration of the 
landing of the Pilgrims. 

Living at an epoch which naturally marks the progress of the 
history of our native land, we have come hither to celebrate the 
great event with which that history commenced. Forever hon- 
ored be this, the place of our fathers' refuge ! Forever remem- 
bered the day which saw them, weary and distressed, broken in 
everything but spirit, poor in all but faith and courage, at last 
secure from the dangers of wintry seas, and impressing this 
shore with the first footsteps of civilized man ! 

Advance, then, ye future generations ! We would hail you, 
as you rise in your long succession, to fill the places which we 
now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence, where we are 
passing, and soon shall have passed, our own human duration. 
We bid you welcome to this pleasant land of the fathers. We 
bid you welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of 
New England. We greet your accession to the great inheritance 
which we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of 
good government, and religious liberty. We welcome you to 
the treasures of science, and the delights of learning. We wel- 
come you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, to the hap- 
piness of kindred, and parents, and children. We welcome you 
to the immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the immor- 
tal hope of Christianity, and the fight of everlasting truth ! 

WEBSTER. 



EVENTS GREAT, BECAUSE OF THEIR RESULTS. 

There are enterprises, military as well as civil, which some- 
times check the current of events, give a new turn to human 
affairs, and transmit their consequences through ages. We see 
their importance in their results, and call them great because 
great things follow. 

There have been battles which have fixed the fate of nations. 
These come down to us in history with a solid and per- 
manent interest, not created by a display of glittering armor, 
the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and rising of pen- 
nons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory ; but by their effect 
in advancing or retarding human knowledge, in overthrowing 



94 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

or establishing despotism, in extending or destroying human 
happiness. When the traveler pauses on ihe plain of Marathon, 
what are the emotions which most strongly agitate his breast ? 
What is that glorious recollection, which thrills through his 
frame, and suffuses his eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill 
and Grecian valor were here most signally displayed ; but that 
Greece herself was here saved. It is because to this spot, and 
to the event which has rendered it immortal, he refers all the 
succeeding glories of the republic. It is because if that day had 
gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is because he perceives 
that her philosophers, and orators, her poets and painters, her 
sculptors and architects, her governments and free institutions, 
point backward to Marathon, and that their future existence 
seems to have been suspended on the contingency, whether the 
Persian or the Grecian banner should wave victorious in the 
beams of that day's setting sun. And as his imagination kindles 
at the retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting 
moment, he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts, his 
interest for the result overwhelms him ; he trembles, as if it were 
still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether he may consider 
Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sophocles and Phidias, as 
secure, yet, to himself and to the world. webster. 



CORRUPTION, THE CAUSE OF THE FALL OF STATES. 

The old world has already revealed to us in its unsealed 
books the beginning and end of all its own marvelous struggles 
in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, " the land of 
scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics in fair 
possessions chanted the praises of liberty and the gods ; where, 
and what is she ? For two thousand years the oppressor has 
bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad 
relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; 
the fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, 
yet beautiful in ruin. She fell not when the mighty were upon 
her. Her sons were united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and 
the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She 
was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of 
her own people. The Man of Macedonia did not the work of 
destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, ban- 
ishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose 
eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun, where, and what 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 95 

is she ? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her deso- 
lation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, 
and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but 
traveled in + he paths worn by her destroyers. More than 
eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. 
A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Caesar had crossed 
the Rubicon ; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep 
probings of the senate chamber. The Goths and Vandals and 
Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already 
begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were 
bought and sold ; but the people offered the tribute money. 

STORY. 



AN APPEAL IN BEHALF OF AMERICAN LIBERTY. 

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by 
the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are, 
and all you hope to be ; resist every object of disunion, resist 
every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to 
fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extin- 
guish your system of public instruction. 

I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, 
the love of your offspring ; teach them, as they climb your 
knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear 
them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to 
their country, and never to forget or forsake her. 

I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you 
are ; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too 
short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death 
never comes too soon, if necessary in defense of the liberties of 
your country. 

I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, 
and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in 
sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived 
in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation 
of slaves. 

No — I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, 
far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must 
soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time 
of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon 
the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he, 
who at the distance of another century shall stand here to cele- 
brate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous 



96 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with 
all the enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that 
here is still his country. story. 



THE TOMAHAWK SUBMISSIVE TO ELOQUENCE. 

Twenty tomahawks were raised ; twenty arrows drawn to 
their head. Yet stood Harold, stern and collected — at bay — 
parleying only with his sword. He waved his arm. Smitten 
with a sense of their cowardice, perhaps, or by his great dig- 
nity, more awful for his very youth, their weapons dropped, and 
their countenances were uplifted upon him, less in hatred than 
in wonder. 

The old men gathered about him — he leaned upon his sabre. 
Their eyes shone with admiration — such heroic deportment, in 
one so young — a boy ! so intrepid ! so prompt ! so graceful 1 
so eloquent, too ! — for, knowing the effect of eloquence, and 
feeling the loftiness of his own nature, the innocence of his own 
heart, the character of the Indians for hospitality, and their 
veneration for his blood, Harold dealt out the thunder of his 
strength to these rude barbarians of the wilderness, till they, 
young and old, gathering nearer and nearer in their devotion, 
threw down their weapons at his feet, and formed a rampart of 
locked arms and hearts about him, through which his eloquence 
thrilled and lightened like electricity. The old greeted him 
with a lofty step, as the patriarch welcomes his boy from the 
triumph of far-off battle ; and the young clave to him and clung 
to him, and shouted in their self-abandonment, hke brothers 
round a conquering brother. 

" Warriors !" he said, " Brethren !" — (their tomahawks were 
brandished simultaneously, at the sound of his terrible voice, as 
if preparing for the onset.) His tones grew deeper, and less 
threatening. ''Brothers! let us talk together of Logan! Ye 
who have known him, ye aged men ! bear ye testimony to the 
deeds of his strength. Who was like him ? Who could resist 
him ? Who may abide the hurricane in its volley ? W T ho may 
withstand the winds that uproot the great trees of the mountain ? 
Let him be the foe of Logan. Thrice in one day hath he given 
battle. Thrice in one day hath he come back victorious. Who 
may bear up against the strong man ? the man of war ? Let 
them that are young, hear me. Let them follow the course of 
Logan. He goes in clouds and whirlwind — in the fire and in 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 97 

the smoke. Let them follow him. Warriors ! Logan was the 
father of Harold !" 

They fell back in astonishment, but they believed him ; for 
Harold's word was unquestioned, undoubted evidence, to them 
that knew him. neal. 



ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS. 

The classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circumstance 
that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, 
of composition and thought in all ages. In the contemplation of 
these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting 
emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remem- 
bered and more cherished still, than all the intermediate words 
that have been uttered, — as the lessons of childhood still haunt 
us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from 
the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the 
tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to 
the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest 
charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of 
love to God and man. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the 
Porch and the Academy that we are to seek these ; not in the 
marvelous teachings of Socrates, as they come enforced by the 
mellifluous words of Plato ; not in the resounding line of Homer, 
on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head ; 
not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in 
the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games ; not in 
the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of 
vengeance ; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence 
of Tully ; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately 
atheism of Lucretius. No ; these must not be our masters ; in 
none of these are we to seek the way of life. For eighteen 
hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in 
weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount and those two 
sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the proph- 
ets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has pos- 
sessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcized. It still 
tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts 
the meditations of age. 

Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the 
ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of 
form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior 
9 



98 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

in the truth, delicacy, and elevation of their sentiments — above 
all, in the benign recognition of that great Christian revelation, 
the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry, 
compared with this heaven-descended truth ! Put in one scale 
that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity, with 
its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be 
light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened 
to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetri- 
cal crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes ; but 
even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human 
heart. sumner. 



THE MURDERER'S SECRET. 



The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and 
steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. 
The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole 
scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, 
and on all beneath his roof. A heathful old man, to whom sleep 
was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their 
soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, through the win- 
dow already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With 
noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon ; 
he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of 
the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued 
pressure, till it turns on its hinges without noise ; and he enters, 
and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly 
open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper 
was turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, rest- 
ing on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to 
strike. The fatal blow is given ! and the victim passes, without 
a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of 
death ! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work ; and he 
yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been 
destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the 
aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and 
replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard ! To finish the 
picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse ! He feels for it, and 
ascertains that it beats no longer ! It is accomplished. The 
deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, 
passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done 
the murder — no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The 
secret is his own, and it is safe ! 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 99 

All ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret 
can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither 
nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is 
safe. Not to speak of that Eye which glances through all dis- 
guises, and beholds everything, as in the splendor of noon — 
such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by man. 

WEBSTER. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 

True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out. " True 
it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, 
that those who break the great law of heaven by shedding man's 
blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery : especially, in a 
case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will 
come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore 
every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the 
time and place : a thousand ears catch every whisper : a thous- 
and excited minds intensely dwell on the scene ; shedding all 
their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a 
blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul cannot keep its 
own secret. 

It is false to itself ; or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of 
conscience to be true to itself : it labors under its guilty posses- 
sion, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was 
not made for the residence of such an inhabitant : it finds itself 
preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God 
or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or 
assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the 
murderer possesses, soon comes to possess him ; and, like the 
evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him 
whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to 
his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole 
world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears 
its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become 
his master. It betrays his discretion : it breaks down his cour- 
age : it conquers his prudence. When suspicions, from without, 
begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entan- 
gle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to 
burst forth. It must be confessed : it will be confessed : there 
is no refuge from confession but suicide ; and suicide is confes- 
sion. WEBSTER. 



100 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



FRENCH AGGRESSIONS. 

The solemn oath of America has ascended to heaven. She 
has sworn to preserve her independence, her religion and her 
laws, or nobly perish in their defense, and be buried in the 
wrecks of her empire. To the fate of our government is united 
the fate of our country. The convulsions that destroy the one, 
must desolate the other. Their destinies are interwoven, and 
they must triumph or fall together. Where then is the man, so 
hardened in political iniquity, as to advocate the victories of 
French arms, which would render his countrymen slaves, or 
to promote the diffusion of French principles, which would ren- 
der them savages ? Can it be doubted, that the pike of a French 
soldier is less cruel and ferocious than the fraternity of a French 
philosopher ? Where is the youth in this assembly, who could, 
without agonized emotions, behold the Gallic invader hurling 
the brand of devastation into the dwelling of his father ; or with 
sacrilegious cupidity plundering the communion table of his God ? 
Who could witness, without indignant desperation, the mother 
who bore him, inhumanly murdered in the defense of her 
infants ? Who could hear, without frantic horror, the shrieks 
of a sister, flying from pollution, and leaping from the blazing- 
roof, to impale herself on the point of a halberd ? "If any, 
speak, for him I have offended !" No, my fellow-citizens, these 
scenes are never to be witnessed by American eyes. The souls 
of your ancestors still live in the bosom of their descendants ; 
and rather than submit this fair land of their inheritance to 
ravage and dishonor, from hoary age to helpless infancy, they 
will form one united bulwark, and oppose their breasts to the 
assailing foe. paine. 



SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS. 

Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand 
and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the begin- 
ning we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity 
which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven 
us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest, for our good, she 
has obstinately presisted, till independence is now within our 
grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. 

Why then should we defer the declaration ? Is any man so 
weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 101 

shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or 
safety to his own life and his own honor ? Are not you, sir, 
who sit in that chair ; is not he, our venerable colleague near 
you ; are you not both already the proscribed and predestined 
objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope 
of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the 
power of England remains, but outlaws ? 

If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give 
up the war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of parlia- 
ment, Boston port bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, and 
consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our 
country and its rights trodden down in the dust ? I know we 
do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. 

Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever 
entered into by men — ■ that plighting, before God, of our sacred 
honor to Washington, when putting him forth to incur the dan- 
gers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we 
promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our for- 
tunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here, who 
would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the 
land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that 
plighted faith fall to the ground. 

For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved 
you that George Washington be appointed commander of the 
forces, raised or to be raised, for defense of American liberty, 
"may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave 
to the roof of my mouth/' if I hesitate or waver in the support I 
give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it 
through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the 
declaration of independence ? That measure will strengthen 
us. It will give us character abroad. webster. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



If we fail, it cannot be worse for us. But we shall not fail. 
The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. 
The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, 
and will carry themselves, gloriously, through this struggle. I 
care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the 
people of these colonies, and I know that resistance of British 
aggression is deep and settled in their hearts and cannot be 
eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed its willing- 



102 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the declaration 
will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a 
long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of 
grievances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, 
set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and 
it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. 

Read this declaration at the head of the army ; every sword 
will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered to 
maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it frorr 
the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the love of religious 
liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with 
it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it there ; let them 
hear it, who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let 
them see it, who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the 
field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Con- 
cord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. 

Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see 
clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue 
it. We may not live to the time when this declaration shall be 
made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it 
may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. 
If it be the pleasure of heaven that my country shall require the 
poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the 
appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But 
while I do five, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a 
country, and that a free country. 

But whatever may be our fate, be assured that this declara- 
tion will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; 
but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. 
Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of 
the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glori- 
ous, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children 
will honor it. They will celebrate it, with thanksgiving, with 
festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return 
they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection 
and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of 
gratitude, and of joy. 

Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment 
approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. AH that I 
have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am 
now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave off as I begun, 
that five or die, survive or perish, I am for the declaration. It 
is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be 
my dying sentiment — independence now; and independence 

EOREVFR. WEBSTER. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 103 



THE MISERIES OF WAR. 



Oh, tell me, if there be any relentings of pity in your bosom, 
how could you endure it, to behold the agonies of the dying man, 
as, goaded by pain, he grasps the cold ground in convulsive 
energy ; or, faint with the loss of blood, his pulse ebbs low, and 
the gathering paleness spreads itself over his countenance ; or, 
wrapping himself round in despair, he can only mark, by a few 
feeble quiverings, that life still lurks and lingers in his lacerated 
body, or, lifting up a faded eye, he casts on you a look of implo- 
ring helplessness for that succor which no sympathy can yield 
him ? It may be painful to dwell thus, in imagination, on the 
distressing picture of one individual ; but, multiply it ten thousand 
times ; say how much of all this distress has been heaped together 
on a single field ; give us the arithmetic of this accumulated 
wretchedness, and lay it before us with all the accuracy of an 
ofiicial computation, and, strange to tell, not one sigh is lifted 
up among the crowd of eager listeners, as they stand on tiptoe, 
and catch every syllable of utterance which is read to them out 
the registers of death. Oh ! say what mystic spell is that which 
so blinds us to the suffering of our brethren ; which deafens to 
our ear the voice of bleeding humanity, when it is aggravated 
by the shriek of dying thousands ; which makes the very magni- 
tude of the slaughter throw a softening disguise over its cruelties 
and its horrors ; which causes us to eye, with indifference, the 
field that is crowded with the most revolting abominations, and 
arrests that sigh Avhich each individual would, singly, have drawn 
from us, by the report of the many that have fallen and breathed 
their last in agony along with him ! Chalmers. 



FREE DISCUSSION. 



Important as I deem it to discuss, on all proper occasions, the 
policy of the measures at present pursued, it is still more import- 
ant to maintain the right of such discussion in its full and just 
extent. Sentiments lately sprung up, and now growing fashion- 
able, make it necessary to be explicit on this point. The more 
I perceive a disposition to check the freedom of inquiry by 
extravagant and unconstitutional pretenses, the firmer shall be 
the tone in which I shall assert, and the freer the manner in 
which I shall exercise it. 



104 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

It is the ancient and undoubted prerogative of this people to 
canvass public measures, and the merits of public men. It is a 
"home-bred right," a fireside privilege. It hath ever been 
enjoyed in every house, cottage, and cabin in the nation. It is 
not to be drawn into controversy. It is as undoubted as the 
right of breathing the air, or walking on the earth. Belonging 
to public life as a right, it belongs to public life as a duty ; and 
it is the last duty which those, whose representative I am, shall 
find me to abandon. Aiming at all times to be temperate and 
courteous in its use, except when the right itself shall be ques- 
tioned, I shall then carry it to its extent. I shall place myself 
on the extreme boundary of my right, and bid defiance to any 
arm that would move me from my ground. 

This high constitutional privilege I shall defend and exercise 
within this house, and without this house, and in all places ; in 
time of peace, and in all times. Living, I shall assert it ; and, 
should I leave no other inheritance to my children, by the bless- 
ing of God I will leave them the inheritance of free principles, 
and the example of a manly, independent, and constitutional 
defense of them. webster. 



AMERICAN INSTITUTIONS. 

Who is there among us, that, should he find himself on any 
spot of the earth where human beings exist, and where the exist- 
ence of other nations is known, would not be proud to say, I am 
an American ? I am a countryman of Washington ? I am a 
citizen of that republic which, although it has suddenly sprung 
up, yet there are none on the globe who have ears to hear, and 
have not heard of it — who have eyes to see, and have not read 
of it — who know anything, and yet do not know of its existence 
and its glory ? And, gentlemen, let me now reverse the picture. 
Let me ask, who is there among us, if he were to be found to-mor- 
row in one of the civilized countries of Europe, and were there to 
learn that this goodly form of government had been overthrown — 
that the United States were no longer united — who is there 
whose heart would not sink within him ? Who is there who 
would not cover his face for very shame ? 

At this very moment, gentlemen, our country is a general ref- 
uge for the oppressed and the persecuted of other nations. Who- 
ever is in affliction from political occurrences in his own country, 
looks here for shelter. Whether he be republican, flying from 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 105 

the oppression of thrones — or whether he be monarch or mon- 
archist, flying from thrones that crumble and fall under or around 
him — he feels equal assurance that, if he get foothold on our 
soil, his person is safe, and his rights will be respected. 

We have tried these popular institutions in times of great 
excitement and commotion ; and they have stood substantially 
firm and steady, while the fountains of the great political deep 
have been elsewhere broken up ; while thrones, resting on ages 
of prescription, have tottered and fallen ; and while, in other 
countries, the earthquake of unrestrained popular commotion has 
swallowed up all law, and all liberty, and all right together. 
Our government has been tried in peace, and it has been tried 
in war ; and has proved itself fit for both. It has been assailed 
from without, and it has successfully resisted the shock ; it has 
been disturbed within, and it has effectually quieted the disturb- 
ance. It can stand trial — it can stand assault — it can stand 
adversity — it can stand everything but the marring of its own 
beauty and the weakness of his own strength. It can stand 
everything but the effects of our own strength. It can stand 
everything but disorganization, disunion, and nullification. 

WEBSTER. 



SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY, 

Before the Virginia Convention of Delegates, March, 1775. 

Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions 
of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, 
and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into 
beasts. Is it the part of wise men, engaged in the great and 
arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the 
number of those, who, having eyes, see not, and having ears 
hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal sal- 
vation ? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I 
am willing to know the whole truth, and to provide for it. 

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and that 
is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the 
future, but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to 
know, what there has been in the conduct of the British 
ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with 
which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and 
the house ? 

Is it that insidious smile, with which our petition has been 
latelv received ? Trust it not, sir ; it will prove a snare to your 



106 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask 
yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports 
with those warlike preparations, which cover our waters and 
darken our land. 

Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and recon- 
ciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be recon- 
ciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us 
not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and 
subjugation — the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask 
gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be 
not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen assign any other 
motive for it ? 

Has Great Britain any other enemy in this quarter of the 
world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? 
No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us ; they can be 
meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon 
us those chains which the British ministers have been so long- 
forging. 

And what have we to oppose them ? Shall we try argument ? 
Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we 
anything new to offer on the subject ? Nothing. We have held 
the subject up in every light of which it is capable ; but it has 
been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble sup- 
plication? What terms shall we find which have not been 
already exhausted ? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive 
ourselves longer. 

Sir, we have done everything that could be done, to avert the 
storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned — we have 
remonstrated — we have supplicated — we have prostrated our- 
selves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to 
arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our 
petitions have been slighted ; our remonstrances have produced 
additional violence and insult ; our supplications have been dis- 
regarded ; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the 
foot of the throne. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 

They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so 
formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? 
Will it be the next week, or the next year ? Will it be when we 
are totally disarmed ; and when a British guard shall be sta- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 107 

tioned in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolution 
and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resist- 
ance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive 
phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand 
and foot ? 

Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means 
which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three mil- 
lians of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a 
country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force 
which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall 
not fight alone. There is a just God who presides over the des- 
tinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles 
for us. 

The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone, — it is to the active 
the vigilant, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election ! If 
we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire 
from the contest. There is no retreat — but in submission and 
slavery ! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard 
on the plains of Boston. The war is inevitable — and let it come ! 
I repeat it, sir, let it come. 

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may 
cry peace ! peace ! — but there is no peace. The war is actually 
begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring 
to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are 
already in the field. Why stand we here idle ? What is it that 
gentlemen wish ? What would they have ? Is life so dear, or 
peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and 
slavery ? Forbid it, Heaven ! — I know not what course others 
may take, but as for me — give me liberty, or give me death. 

PATRICK HENRY. 



BRUTUS JUSTIFYING THE ASSASSINATION OF OESAR. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause ; 
and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor ; 
and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Cen- 
sure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may 
the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear 
friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose 
against Caesar, this is my answer, — not that I loved Caesar less, 
but that I loved Rome more. 



108 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than 
that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen ? As Caesar loved 
me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he 
was valiant, I honor him ; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. 
There are tears, for his love ; joy, for his fortune ; honor, for 
his valor ; and death, for his ambition. Who 's here so base, 
that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I 
offended. Who 's here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? 
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who 's here so vile, 
that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I 
offended. I pause for a reply. 

None ! Then none have I offended. I have done no more 
to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his 
death is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not extenuated, 
wherein he was worthy ; nor his offenses enforced, for which he 
suffered death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, 
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of 
his dying — a place in the commonwealth ; as which of you 
shall not ? With this I depart ; that, as I slew my best lover 
for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when 
it shall please my country to need my death. shakspeare. 



HAMLET'S ADDRESS TO THE PLAYERS. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, 
trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of our 
players do, I had as lief the town-criers spoke my lines. Nor 
do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all 
gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) 
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a tem- 
perance, that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the 
soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to 
tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings ; who, 
for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb- 
shows and noise : I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er- 
doing Termageus ; it out-herods Herod : I pray you avoid it. 
Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your 
tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with 
this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of 
nature ; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of play- 
ing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 109 

as it were, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own fea- 
ture, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the 
time, his form and pressure. Now this, overdone, or come tardy 
on , though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the 
judicious grieve ; the censure of which one, must in your allow- 
ance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players, 
that I have seen play, — and heard others praise, and that 
highly, — not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the 
accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, 
have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of 
nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, 
they imitated humanity so abominably. shakspeare. 



CITRRAN IN DEFENSE OF ROWAN. 

You know, gentlemen, that France had espoused the cause of 
America, and we became thereby engaged in a war with that 
nation. Heu nescia mens hominum futuri ! 

Little did that ill-fated monarch know that he was forming the 
first causes of those disastrous events, that were to end in the 
subversion of his throne, in the slaughter of his family, and the 
deluging of his country with the blood of his people. You cannot 
but remember that, at a time when we had scarcely a regular 
soldier for our defense ; when the old and young were alarmed 
and terrified with apprehensions of descent upon our coasts ; that 
Providence seemed to have worked a sort of miracle in our favor. 
You saw a band of armed men come forth at the great call of 
nature, of honor, and their country. You saw men of the 
greatest wealth and rank ; you saw every class of the commu- 
nity give up its members, and send them armed into the field, 
to protect the public and private tranquillity of Ireland. It is 
impossible for any man to turn back to that period, without reviv- 
ing those sentiments of tenderness and gratitude which then 
beat in the public bosom : to recollect amidst what applause, 
what tears, what prayers, what benedictions, they walked forth 
amongst spectators, agitated by the mingled sensations of terror 
and of reliance, of danger and of protection, imploring the bless- 
ings of heaven upon their heads, and its conquests upon their 
swords. That illustrious, and adored, and abused body of men 
stood forward and assumed the title, which, I trust, the ingrati- 
tude of their country will never blot from its history, "the 
volunteers of Ireland." * * * * 



110 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

We are told that we are in danger ; I call upon yon, the great 
constitutional saviors of Ireland, to defend the country to which 
you have given political existence, and to use whatever sanction 
your great name, your sacred character, and the weight you 
have in the community, must give you to repress wicked designs, if 
any there are. We feel ourselves strong. The people are always 
strong ; the public chains can only be riveted by the public hands. 
Look to those devoted regions of southern despotism ; behold the 
expiring victim on his knees, presenting the javelin reeking with his 
blood to the ferocious monster who returns it into his heart. Call 
not that monster the tyrant : he is no more than the executioner 
of that inhuman tyranny, which the people practise upon them- 
selves, and of which he is only reserved to be a later victim than 
the wretch he has sent before. Look to a nearer country, where 
the sanguinary characters are more legible ; whence you almost 
hear the groans of death and torture. Do you ascribe the 
rapine and murder in France to the few names that we are exe- 
crating here ? or do you not see that it is the frenzy of an infu- 
riated multitude abusing its own strength, and practising those 
hideous abominations upon itself. Against the violence of this 
strength, let your virtue and influence be our safeguard. * * 

What criminality, gentlemen of the jury, can you find in this ? 
what at any time ? but I ask you, peculiarly at this momentous 
period, what guilt can you find in it ? My client saw the scene 
of horror and blood which covers almost the face of Europe : he 
feared that causes, which he thought similar, might produce 
similar effects, and he seeks to avert those dangers by calling 
the united virtue and tried moderation of the country into a 
state of strength and vigilance. Yet this is the conduct which 
the prosecution of this day seeks to punish and stigmatize ; and 
this is the language for which this paper is reprobated to-day, as 
tending to turn the hearts of the people against their sovereign 
and inviting them to overturn the constitution. 

Gentlemen, let me suggest another observation or two, if still 
you have any doubt as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant. 
Give me leave to suggest to you, what circumstances you ought 
to consider, in order to found your verdict. You should consider 
the character of the person accused ; and in this your task is 
easy. I will venture to say, there is not a man in this nation 
more known than the gentleman who is the subject of this prose- 
cution, not only by the part he has taken in public concerns, and 
which he has taken in common with many ; but still more so by 
that extraordinary sympathy for human affliction, which, I am 
sorry to think, he shares with so small a number. There is not 
a day that you hear the cries of your starving manufacturers in 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. Ill 

your streets, that you do not also see the advocate of their suffer- 
ings — that you do not see his honest and manly figure, with 
uncovered head, soliciting for their relief ; searching the frozen 
heart of charity, for every string that can be touched by com- 
passion, and urging the force of every argument and every motive 
save that which his modesty suppresses — the authority of his 
own generous example. Or if you see him not there, you may 
trace his steps to the private abode of disease, and famine, and 
despair ; the messenger of heaven, bringing with him food, and 
medicine, and consolation. Are these the materials of which 
you suppose anarchy and public rapine to be formed ? Is this 
the man, on whom you fasten the abominable charge of goading 
on a frantic populace to mutiny and bloodshed ? Is this the man 
likely to apostatize from every principle that can bind him to the 
state ; his birth, his property, his education, his character, and 
his children ? Let me tell you, gentlemen of the jury, if you agree 
with his prosecutors in thinking that there ought to be a sacrifice 
of such a man, on such an occasion, and upon the credit of such 
evidence, you are to convict him — never did you, never can you 
give a sentence, consigning any man to public punishment, with 
less danger to his person or to his fame ; for where could the 
hireling be found to fling contumely or ingratitude at his head, 
whose private distresses he had not labored to alleviate, or whose 
public condition he had not labored to improve ? 



CURRAN ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 

What then remains ? The liberty of the press only ; that 
sacred palladium, which no influence, no power, no minister, no 
government, which nothing but the depravity, or folly, or cor- 
ruption of a jury, can ever destroy. And what calamities are 
the people saved from by having public communication left open 
to them ? I will tell you, gentlemen, what they are saved from, 
and what the government is saved from ! I will tell you also 
to what both are exposed by shutting up that communication. 
In one case sedition speaks aloud, and walks abroad ; the dema- 
gogue goes forth ; the public eye is upon him ; he frets his busy 
hour upon the stage ; but soon either weariness, or bribe, or pun- 
ishment, or disappointment bear him down, or drive him off, and 
he appears no more. In the other case, how does the work of 
sedition go forward ? Night after night the muffled rebel steals 
forth in the dark, and casts another and another brand upon the 



112 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

pile, to which, when the hour of fatal maturity shall arrive, he 
will apply the flame. If you doubt of the horrid consequences 
of suppressing the effusion even of individual discontent, look to 
those enslaved countries where the protection of despotism is 
supposed to be secured by such restraints. Even the person of 
the despot there is never in safety. Neither the fears of the 
despot, nor the machinations of the slave have any slumber, the 
one anticipating the moment of peril, the other watching the 
opportunity of aggression. The fatal crisis is equally a surprise 
upon both ; the decisive instant is precipitated without warning 
by folly on the one side, or by frenzy on the other, and there 
is no notice of the treason till the traitor acts. In those unfor- 
tunate countries (one cannot read it without horror) there are 
officers, whose province it is to have the water, which is to be 
drunk by their rulers, sealed up in bottles, lest some wretched 
miscreant should throw poison into the draught. 

But, gentlemen, if you wish for a nearer and more interesting 
example, you have it in the history of your own revolution ; you 
have it at that memorable period, when the monarch found a 
servile acquiescence in the ministers of his folly ; when the lib- 
erty of the press was trodden under foot ; when venal sheriffs 
returned packed juries to carry into effect those fatal conspiracies 
of the few against the many ; when the devoted benches of pub- 
lic justice were filled by some of those foundlings of fortune, 
who, overwhelmed in the torrent of conniption at an early period, 
lay at the bottom like drowned bodies, while soundness or sanity 
remained in them ; but at length, becoming buoyant by putre- 
faction, they rose as they rotted, and floated to the surface of 
the polluted stream, where they were drifted along, the object 
of terror, and contagion, and abomination. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



In that awful moment of a nation's travail, of the last gasp of 
tyranny, and the first breath of freedom, how pregnant is the 
example ? The press extinguished, the people enslaved, and the 
prince undone. As the advocate of society, therefore, of peace, 
of domestic liberty, and the lasting union of the two countries, I 
conjure you to guard the liberty of the press, that great senti- 
nel of the state, that grand detector of public imposture : guard 
it, because, when it sinks, there sinks with it, in one common 
grave, the liberty of the subject, and the security of the crown. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 113 

There is a sort of aspiring and adventurous credulty, which 
disdains assenting to obvious truths, and delights in catching at 
the improbability of circumstances, as its best ground of faith. 
To what other cause, gentlemen, can you ascribe that in the 
wise, the reflecting, and the philosophic nation of Great Britain, 
a printer has been gravely found guilty of a libel, for publishing 
those resolutions to which the present minister of that kingdom 
had actually subscribed his name ? To what other cause can 
you ascribe, what in my mind is still more astonishing, in such a 
country as Scotland — a nation cast in the happy medium 
between the spiritless acquiescence of submissive poverty, and 
the sturdy credulity of pampered wealth ; cool and ardent ; 
adventurous and persevering ; winging her eagle flight against 
the blaze of every science, with an eye that never winks, and a 
wing that never tires ; crowned as she is with the spoils of every 
art, and decked with the wreath of every muse, from the deep 
and scrutinizing researches of her Hume, to the sweet and sim- 
ple, but not less sublime and pathetic morality of her Burns — 
how, from the bosom of a country like that, genius, and charac- 
ter, and talents should be banished to a distant barbarous soil ; 
condemned to pine under the horrid communion of vulgar vice 
and base-born profligacy, for twice the period that ordinary cal- 
culation gives to the continuance of human life ? curran. 



NOBLE DEFENSE OF IRISH CHARACTER. 

It has been said, too, (and when we were to be calumniated, 
what has not been said ?) that Irishmen are neither fit for free- 
dom or grateful for favors. In the first place, I deny that to be 
a favor which is a right ; and in the next place, I utterly deny 
that a system of conciliation has ever been adopted with respect 
to Ireland. Try them, and, my fife on it, they will be found 
grateful. I think I know my countrymen ; they cannot help 
being grateful for a benefit ; and there is no country on the earth 
where one would be conferred with more characteristic benevo- 
lence. They are, emphatically, the school-boys of the heart — 
a people of sympathy ; their acts spring instinctively from their 
passions ; by nature ardent, by instinct brave, by inheritance 
generous. The children of impulse, they cannot avoid their 
virtues ; and to be other than noble, they must not only be un- 
natural but unnational. Put my panegyric to the test. Enter 
the hovel of the Irish peasant. I do not say you will find the 
10 



114 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

frugality of the Scotch, the comfort of the English, or the fan- 
tastic decorations of the French cottager ; but I do say, within 
those wretched bazaars of mud and misery, you will find sensi- 
bility the most affecting, politeness the most natural, hospitality 
the most grateful, merit the most unconscious ; their look is 
eloquence, their smile is love, their retort is wit, their remark 
is wisdom — not a wisdom borrowed from the dead, but that 
with which nature herself has inspired them ; an acute observ- 
ance of the passing scene, and a deep insight into the motives 
of its agent. Try to deceive them, and see with what shrewd- 
ness they will detect ; try to outwit them, and see with what 
humor they will elude ; attack them with argument, and you 
will stand amazed at the strength of their expression, the 
rapidity of their ideas, and the energy of their gesture. In 
short, God seems to have formed our country like our people ; 
he has thrown round the one its wild, magnificent, decorated 
rudeness ; he has infused into the other the simplicity of genius 
and the seeds of virtue : he says audibly to us, " Give them 
cultivation. " Phillips. 



CURRAN ON IRISH EMANCIPATION. 

This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of emanci- 
pating the Catholics of Ireland, and that is charged as a part of 
the libel. If they had waited another year, if they had kept this 
prosecution impending for another year, how much would re- 
main for a jury to decide upon, I should be at a loss to discover. 
It seems as if the progress of public information was eating 
away the ground of the prosecution. Since the commencement 
of the prosecution, this part of the libel has unluckily received 
the sanction of the legislature. In that interval our Catholic 
brethren have obtained that admission, which it seems was a 
libel to propose ; in what way to account for this, I am really at 
a loss. Have any alarms been occasioned by the emancipation 
of our Catholic brethren ? has the bigoted malignity of any indi- 
viduals been crushed ? or has the stability of the government, 
or that of the country been weakened ? or is one million of sub- 
jects stronger than four millions ? Do you think that the benefit 
they receive should be poisoned by the sting of vengeance ? 
If you think so, you must say to them, "You have demanded 
emancipation and you have got it ; but we abhor your persons, 
we are outraged at your success, and we will stigmatize, by a 
criminal prosecution, the adviser of that relief which you have 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 115 

obtained from the voice of your country." I ask you, do you 
think, as honest men, anxious for the public tranquillity, con- 
scious that there are wounds not yet completely cicatrized, that 
you ought to speak this language at this time, to men who 
are too much disposed to think that in this very emancipation they 
have been saved from their own parliament by the humanity 
of their sovereign ?, Or do you wish to prepare them for the 
revocation of these improvident concessions ? Do you think it 
wise or humane at this moment to insult them, by sticking up 
in a pillory the man who dared to stand forth as their advocate ? 
I put it to your oaths ; do you think that a blessing of that kind, 
that a victory obtained by justice over bigotry and oppression, 
should have a stigma cast upon it by an ignominious sentence 
upon men bold and honest enough to propose that measure ? to 
propose the redeeming of religion from the abuses of the church, 
the reclaiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giving 
liberty to all who had a right to demand it — giving, I say, in 
the so much censured words of this paper, giving " universal 
emancipation /" I speak in the spirit of the British law, which 
makes liberty commensurate with and inseparable from British 
soil ; which proclaims even to the stranger and the sojourner, the 
moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on 
which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of uni- 
versal emancipation. No matter in what language his doom may 
have been pronounced ; — no matter what complexion incom- 
patible with freedom an Indian or an African sun may have 
burnt upon him ; — no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty 
may have been cloven down ; — no matter with what solemni- 
ties he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery ; the 
first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and 
the god sink together in the dust ; his soul walks abroad in her 
own majesty ; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, 
that burst from around him, and he stands redeemed, regener- 
ated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal 

EMANCIPATION. 



ON THE UNION OF CHURCH AND STATE. 

The theology of the question is not for me to argue, it cannot 
be in better hands than in those of your bishops ; and I can 
have no doubt that when they bring their rank, their learning, 
their talents, their piety, and their patriotism to this sublime 
deliberation, they will consult the dignity of that venerable fabric 



116 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

which has stood for ages, splendid and immutable ; which time 
could not crumble, nor persecutions shake, nor revolutions 
change ; which has stood amongst us, like some stupendous and 
majestic Apennine, the earth rocking at its feet, and the heavens 
roaring round its head, firmly balanced on the base of its eter- 
nity ; the relic of what was ; the solemn and sublime memento of 
what must be I 

Is this my opinion as a professed member of the church of 
England ? Undoubtedly it is. As an Irishman, I feel my lib- 
erties interwoven, and the best affections of my heart as it were 
enfibred with those of my Catholic countrymen ; and as a Prot- 
estant, convinced of the purity of my own faith, would I not 
debase it by postponing the powers of reason to the suspicious 
instrumentality of this world's conversion ? No ; surrendering 
as I do, with a proud contempt, all the degrading advantages 
with which an ecclesiastical usurpation would invest me ; so I 
will not interfere with a blasphemous intrusion between any man 
and his Maker. I hold it a criminal and accursed sacrilege, to 
rob even a beggar of a single motive for his devotion : and I 
hold it an equal insult to my own faith, to offer me any boon for 
its profession. This pretended emancipation bill passing into a 
law, would, in my mind, strike not a blow at this sect or that sect, 
but at the very vitality of Christianity itself. I am thoroughly 
convinced that the antichristian connection between church and 
state, which it was suited to increase, has done more mischief 
to the gospel interest, than all the ravings of infidelity since the 
crucifixion. The sublime Creator of our blessed creed never 
meant it to be the channel of a courtly influence, or the source 
of a corrupt ascendancy. He sent it amongst us to heal, not to 
irritate ; to associate, not to seclude ; to collect together, like 
the baptismal dove, every creed and clime and color in the uni- 
verse, beneath the spotless wing of its protection. The union 
of church and state only converts good Christians into bad 
statesmen, and political knaves into pretended Christians. It is 
at best but a foul and adulterous connection, polluting the purity 
of heaven with the abomination of earth, and hanging the tat- 
ters of a political piety upon the cross of an insulted Saviour. 

PHILLIPS. 



SPEECH TO MR. FINLAY. 

If any circumstance could add to the pleasure of this day, it 
is that which I feel in introducing to the friends of my youth, 
the friend of my adoption ; though perhaps I am committing 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 117 

one of our imputed blunders, when I speak of introducing one 
whose patriotism has already rendered him familiar to every 
heart in Ireland : a man, who, conquering every disadvantage, 
and spurning every difficulty, has poured around our misfortunes 
the splendor of an intellect, that at once irradiates and consumes 
them. For the services he has rendered to his country, from 
my heart I thank him ; and, for myself, I offer him a personal, 
it may be a selfish, tribute for saving me, by his presence this 
night, from an impotent attempt at his panegyric. Indeed, 
gentlemen, you can have little idea of what he has to endure, 
who in these times advocates your cause. Every calumny 
which the venal and the vulgar, and the vile, are lavishing upon 
you, is visited with exaggeration upon us. We are called trai- 
tors, because we would rally round the crown an unanimous peo- 
ple. We are called apostates, because we will not persecute 
Christianity. We are branded as separatists, because of our 
endeavors to annihilate the fetters that, instead of binding, clog 
the connection. To these may be added, the frowns of power, 
the envy of dullness, the mean malice of exposed self-interest, 
and, it may be, in despite of all natural affection, even the dis- 
countenance of kindred ! — Well be it so, — 

" For thee, fair Freedom, welcome all the past — 
For thee, my country, welcome, even the last ! " 

I am not ashamed to confess to you, that there was a day when 
I" was bigoted as the blackest ; but I thank the Being who 
gifted me with a mind not quite impervious to conviction, and I 
thank you, who afforded such convincing testimonies of my error. 
I saw you enduring with patience the most unmerited assaults, 
bowing before the insults of revived anniversaries ; in private 
life, exemplary ; in public, unoffending ; in the hour of peace, 
asserting your loyalty ; in the hour of danger, proving it. Even 
when an invading enemy victoriously penetrated into the very 
heart of our country, 1 saw the banner of your allegiance beam- 
ing refutation on your slanderers : was it a wonder, then, that I 
seized my prejudices, and with a blush burned them on the 
altar of my country ! Phillips. 



CURRAN AGAINST O'BRIEN. 



Mr. O'Brien, thus persecuted, abused, and terrified, would 
have gone and lodged his sorrows in the sympathetic bosom of 
the major ; but to prevent even this little solace they made him 



118 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

drunk. The next evening they used him in the like barbarous 
manner, so that he was not only sworn against his will, but, poor 
man, he was made drunk against his inclination. Thus was he 
besieged with united beef-steaks and whiskey, and against such 
potent assailants not even Mr. O'Brien could prevail. 

Whether all this whiskey that he has been forced to drink has 
produced the effect or not, Mr. O'Brien's loyalty is better than 
his memory. In the spirit of loyalty he becomes prophetic, and 
told to Lord Portarlington the circumstances relative to the in- 
tended attack on the ordnance stores, full three weeks before he 
had obtained the information through mortal agency. O ! honest 
James O'Brien! — honest James O'Brien! Let others vainly 
argue on logical truth and ethical falsehood, but if I can once 
fasten him to the ring of perjury, I will bait him at it until his 
testimony shall fail of producing a verdict, although human na- 
ture were as vile and monstrous in you, as she is in him ! He 
has made a mistake ! — but surely no man's life is safe if such 
evidence were admissible. What argument can be founded on his 
testimony, when he swears that he has perjured himself, and that 
anything he says must be false ; I must not believe him at all, 
and by a paradoxical conclusion, suppose against " the damna- 
tion " of his own testimony, that he is an honest man ! 

****** 

The present cause takes in the entire character of your 
country, which may suffer in the eyes of all Europe by your 
verdict. This is the first prosecution of the kind brought for- 
ward to view. It is the great experiment of the informers of 
Ireland, to ascertain how far they can carry on a traffic in human 
blood ! This cannibal informer, this demon O'Brien, greedy 
after human gore, has fifteen other victims in reserve, if, from 
your verdict, he receives the unhappy man at the bar ! Fifteen 
more of your fellow- citizens are to be tried on his evidence ! Be 
you then their saviors ; let your verdict snatch them from his 
ravening maw, and interpose between yourselves and endless 
remorse ! 

I know, gentlemen, I would but insult you, if I were to apolo- 
gize for detaining you thus long ; if I have apology to make to 
any person, it is to my client, for thus delaying his acquittal. 
Sweet is the recollection of having done justice, in that hour 
when the hand of death presses on the human heart ! Sweet is 
the hope which it gives birth to ! From you I demand that jus- 
tice for my client, your innocent and unfortunate felloAV-subject 
at the bar ; and may you have for it a more lasting reward than 
the perishable crown we read of, which the ancients placed on 
the brow of him who saved in battle the life of a fellow-citizen. 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 119 

If you should ever be assailed by the hand of the informer, 
may you find an all-powerful refuge in the example which you 
shall set this day. Earnestly do I pray that you may never ex- 
perience what it is to count the tedious hours in captivity, pining 
in the damps and gloom of the dungeon, while the wicked one is 
going about at large seeking whom he may devour. There is 
another than a human tribunal, where the best of us will have 
occasion to look back on the little good we have done. In that 
awful trial, oh ! may your verdict this day assure your hopes, 
and give you strength and consolation in the presence of an 
adjudging God. 



CURRAN IN DEFENSE OF ORR. 

" Alas ! nor wife, nor children more shall he behold, nor 
friends, nor sacred home ! " No seraph mercy unbars his dun- 
geon and leads him forth to light and life ; but the minister of 
death hurries him to the scene of suffering and of shame ; where, 
unmoved by the hostile array of artillery and armed men col- 
lected together, to secure, or to insult, or to disturb him, he dies 
with a solemn declaration of his innocence, and utters his last 
breath in a prayer for the liberty of his country. Let me now 
ask you, if any of you had addressed the public ear upon so 
foul and monstrous a subject, in what language would you have 
conveyed the feelings of horror and indignation ? Would you 
have stooped to the meanness of qualified complaint ? Would 
you have been mean enough — But I entreat your forgiveness, 
I do not think meanly of you ; had I thought so meanly of you, 
I could not suffer my mind to commune with you as it has done. 
Had I thought you that base and vile instrument, attuned by 
hope and by fear into discord and falsehood, from whose vulgar 
string no groan of suffering could vibrate, no voice of integrity 
or honor could speak, let me honestly tell you, I should have 
scorned to string my hand across it ; I should have left it to a 
fitter minstrel. If I do not, therefore, grossly err in my opinion 
of you, I could use no language upon such a subject as this, that 
must not lag behind the rapidity of your feelings, and that would 
not disgrace those feelings if it attempted to describe them. 

Upright and honest jurors, find a civil and obliging verdict 
against the printer ! And when you have done so, march through 
the ranks of your fellow-citizens to your own homes, and 
bear their looks as you pass along ; retire to the bosom of your 



120 NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

families and your children, and, when you are presiding over the 
morality of the parental board, tell those infants, who are to be 
the future men of Ireland, the history of this day. Form their 
young minds by your precepts, and confirm those precepts by 
your own example ; teach them how discreetly allegiance may be 
perjured on the table, or loyalty be forsworn in the jury-box ; and 
when you have done so, tell them the story of Orr ; tell them of 
his captivity, of his children, of his crime, of his hopes, of his 
disappointments, of his courage, and of his death ; and when 
you find your little hearers hanging upon your lips, when you see 
their eyes overflow with sympathy and sorrow, and their young 
hearts bursting with the pangs of anticipated orphanage, tell 
them that you had the boldness and the justice to stigmatize the 
monster who had dared to publish the transaction ! 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



I tell you, therefore, gentlemen of the jury, it is not with 
respect to Mr. Orr that your verdict is now sought : you are 
called upon on your oaths to say, that the government is wise 
and merciful, that the people are prosperous and happy, that 
military law ought to be continued, that the British constitution 
could not with safety be restored to this country, and that the 
statements of a contrary import by your advocates in either 
country were libelous and false. I tell you these are the ques- 
tions ; and I ask you, can you have the front to give the expected 
answer, in the face of a community who know the country as 
well as you do ? Let me ask you, how could you reconcile with 
such a verdict, the jails, the tenders, the gibbets, the conflagra- 
tions, the murders, the proclamations that we hear of every day 
in the streets, and see every day in the country ? What are the 
processions of the learned counsel himself, circuit after circuit ? 
Merciful God ! what is the state of Ireland, and where shall you 
find the wretched inhabitant of this land ? You may find him 
perhaps in jail, the only place of security, I had almost said, 
of ordinary habitation ; you may see him flying by the confla- 
grations of his own dwelling , or you may find his bones bleach- 
ing on the green fields of his country ; or he may be found 
tossing upon the surface of the ocean, and mingling his groans 
with those tempests, less savage than his persecutors, that drift 
him to a returnless distance from his family and his home. And 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 121 

yet, with these facts ringing in the ears and staring in the face 
of the prosecutors, you are called upon to say, on your oaths, 
that these facts do not exist. You are called upon, in defiance 
of shame, of truth, of honor, to deny the sufferings under which 
you groan, and to natter the persecution that tramples you under 
foot. CURRAN. 



THE PUBLIC INFORMER. 



But the learned gentleman is further pleased to say, that the 
traverser has charged the government with the encouragement 
of informers. This, gentlemen, is another small fact that you 
are to deny at the hazard of your souls, and upon the solemnity 
of your oaths. You are upon your oaths to say to the sister 
country, that the government of Ireland uses no such abomina- 
ble instruments of destruction as informers. Let me ask you 
honestly, what do you feel, when in my hearing, when in the 
face of this audience, you are called upon to give a verdict that 
every man of us, and every man of you, know by the testimony 
of your own eyes to be utterly and absolutely false ? I speak 
not now of the public proclamation of informers, with a promise 
of secrecy and of extravagant reward ; I speak not of the fate 
of those horrid wretches who have been so often transferred from 
the table to the dock, and from the dock to the pillory ; I speak 
of what your own eyes have seen day after day, during the 
course of this commission, from the box where you are now sit- 
ting ; the number of horrid miscreants who avowed upon their 
oaths that they had come from the very seat of government — 
from the castle, where they had been worked upon by the fear 
of death and the hopes of compensation to give evidence against 
their fellows ; that the mild and wholesome councils of this gov- 
ernment are holden over these catacombs of living death, where 
the wretch that is buried a man, lies till his heart has time to 
fester and dissolve, and is then dug up a witness. 

Is this fancy, or is it fact ? Have you not seen him, after his 
resurrection from that tomb, after having been dug out of the 
region of death and corruption, make his appearance upon the 
table, the living image of life and of death, and the supreme 
arbiter of both ? Have you not marked when he entered, how 
the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his approach ? Have 
you not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy 
of his power, in the undissembled homage of deferential horror ? 
11 



122 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

How his glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the 
body of the accused, and mark it for the grave, while Ms voice 
warned the devoted wretch of woe and death ; a death which no 
innocence can escape, no art elude, no force resist, no antidote 
prevent. There was an antidote — a juror's oath : but even 
that adamantine chain, that bound the integrity of man to the 
throne of eternal justice, is solved and melted in the breath that 
issues from the informer's mouth; conscience swings from her 
mooring, and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own 
safety in the surrender of the victim. curran. 



APPEAL TO THE JURY 



I do not wonder that the government of Ireland should stand 
appalled at the state to which we are reduced. I wonder not 
they should start at the public voice, and labor to stifle or con- 
tradict it. I wonder not that at this arduous crisis, when the 
very existence of the empire is at stake, and when its strongest 
and most precious limb is not girt with the sword for battle, but 
pressed by the tourniquet for amputation ; when they find the 
coldness of death already begun in those extremities where it 
never ends, that they are terrified at what they have done, and 
wish to say to the surviving parties of that empire, " They can- 
not say that we did it." I wonder not that they should consider 
their conduct as no immaterial question for a court of criminal 
jurisdiction, and wish anxiously, as on an inquest of blood, for 
the kind acquittal of a friendly jury. I wonder not that they 
should wish to close the chasm they have opened by flinging 
you into the abyss. But trust me, my countrymen, you might 
perish in it, but you could not close it ; trust me, if it is yet pos- 
sible to close it, it can be done only by truth and honor ; trust 
me, that such an effect could no more be wrought by the sacri- 
fice of a jury, than by the sacrifice of Orr. As a state measure, 
the one would be as unwise and unavailing as the other ; but 
while you are yet upon the brink, while you are yet visible, let 
me, before we part, remind you once more of your awful situa- 
tion. The law upon this subject gives you supreme dominion. 
Hope not for much assistance from his lordship. On such oc- 
casions, perhaps the duty of the court is to be cold and neutral. 
I cannot but admire the dignity he has supported during this 
trial ; I am grateful for his patience. But let me tell you, it is 
not his province to fan the sacred flame of patriotism in the jury- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 123 

box ; as he has borne with the little extravagances of the law, 
do you bear with the little failing of the press. Let me there- 
fore remind you, that, though the day may soon come when our 
ashes shall be scattered before the winds of heaven, the memorjr 
of what you do cannot die ; it will carry down to your posterity 
your honor or your shame. In the presence and in the name 
of the ever-living God, I do therefore conjure you to reflect 
that you have your characters, your consciences, that you have 
also the character, perhaps the ultimate destiny, of your coun- 
try in your hands. In that awful name, I do conjure you to 
have mercy upon your country and yourselves, and so judge 
now, as you will hereafter be judged : and I do now submit the 
fate of my client, and of that country which we yet have in 
common, to your disposal. curran. 



SPEECH OF MR. PHILLIPS, • 

At a Meeting of the British and Foreign Auxiliary Bible Society, London. 

Although I have not had the honor either of proposing or 
seconding any of your resolutions, still, as a native of that coun- 
try so pointedly alluded to in your report, I hope I may be 
indulged in a few observations. The crisis in which we are 
placed is, I hope, a sufficient apology in itself for any intrusion ; 
but I find such apology is rendered more than unnecessary by 
the courtesy of this reception. Indeed, my lord, when we see 
omens which are every day arising — when we see blasphemy 
openly avowed — when we see the Scriptures audaciously ridi- 
culed — when, in this Christian monarchy, the den of the repub- 
lican and the deist yawns for the unwary in your most public 
thoroughfares — when marts are ostentatiously opened, where 
the moral poison may be purchased, whose subtile venom enters 
the very soul — when infidelity has become an article of com- 
merce, and man's perdition may be cheapened at the stall of 
every peddler — no friend of society should continue silent. It 
is no longer a question of political privilege — of sectarian con- 
troversy — of theological discussion ; it is become a question, 
whether Christianity itself shall stand, or whether we shall let go 
the firm anchor of our faith, and drift without chart, or helm, 
or compass, into the shoreless ocean of impiety and blood ! I 
despise as much as any man the whine of bigotry — I will go as 
far as any man for rational liberty, but I will not depose my 
God to deify the infidel, or tear in pieces the charter of the state, 



124 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

and grope for a constitution amongst the murky pigeon-holes of 
every creedless, lawless, infuriated regicide. 

When I saw, the other day, my lord, the chief bacchanal of 
their orgies — the man with whom the apostles were cheats, 
and the prophets liars, and Jesus an impostor — on his memorable 
trial, withering hour after hour with the most horrid blasphe- 
mies — surrounded by the votaries of every sect, and the heads 
of every faith — the Christian archbishop — the Jewish rabbi — 
the men most eminent for their piety and their learning, whom 
he had purposely collected to hear his infidel ridicule of all they 
reverenced — when I saw him raise the Holy Bible in one hand 
and the Age of Reason in the other, as it were confronting the 
Almighty with a rebel worm, till the pious judge grew pale, and 
the patient jury interposed, and the self-convicted wretch him- 
self, after having raved away all his original impiety, was reduced 
into a mere machine for the reproduction of the ribald blasphe- 
my of others — I could not help exclaiming, " Infatuated man ! 
if all your impracticable madness could be realized, what would 
you give us in exchange for our establishment ? What would 
you substitute for that just tribunal ? for whom would you dis- 
place that independent judge and that impartial jury ? Would 
you really burn the Gospel and erase the statutes, for the dread- 
ful equivalent of the crucifix and the guillotine !" Indeed, if I 
was asked for a practical panegyric on our constitution, I would 
adduce the very trial of that criminal ; and if the legal annals 
of any country upon earth furnished an instance, not merely of 
such justice, but of such patience and forbearance, such almost 
culpable indulgence, I would concede to him the triumph. I 
hope, too, in what I say, I shall not be considered as forsaking 
that illustrious example — I hope I am above an insult on any 
man in his situation — perhaps, had I the power, I would follow 
the example further than I ought — perhaps I would even hum- 
ble him into an evidence of the very spirit he spurned — and as our 
creed was reviled in his person, and vindicated in his conviction, 
so I would give it its noblest triumph in his sentence, and merely 
consign him to the punishment of its mercy. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



But, indeed, my lord, the fate of this half infidel, half trading 
martyr, matters very little in comparison of that of the thousands 
he has corrupted. He has literally disseminated a moral plague, 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 125 

against which even the nation's quarantine can scarce avail us. 
It has poisoned the fresh blood of infancy — it has disheartened 
the last hope of age ; if his own account of its circulation be 
correct, hundreds must be this instant tainted with the infectious 
venom whose sting dies not with the destruction of the body. 
Imagine not, because the pestilence smites not at once, that its 
fatality is less certain — imagine not because the lower orders 
are the earliest victims, that the most elevated will not suffer in 
their turn : the most mortal dullness begins at the extremities ; 
and you may depend upon it, nothing but time and apathy are 
wanting to change this healthful land into a charnel-house, where 
murder, anarchy, and prostitution, and the whole hell-brood of 
infidelity, will quaff the heart's blood of the consecrated and the 
noble. 

My lord, I am the more indignant at these designs, because 
they are sought to be concealed in the disguise of liberty. It is 
the duty of every real friend to liberty to tear the mask from the 
fiend who has usurped it. No, no ; this is not our Island Goddess, 
bearing the mountain freshness on her cheeks, and scattering the 
valley's bounty from her hand, known by the lights' that herald 
her fair presence, the peaceful virtues that attend her path, and 
the long blaze of glory that lingers in her train : it is a demon, 
speaking fair indeed — tempting our faith with airy hopes and 
visionary realms, but even within the foldings of its mantle 
hiding the bloody symbol of its purpose. Hear not its sophistry ; 
guard your child against it ; draw round your homes the conse- 
crated circle which it dare not enter. You will find an amulet 
in the religion of your country ; it is the great mound raised by 
the Almighty for the protection of humanity — it stands between 
you and the lava of human passions ; and oh, believe me, if you 
wait tamely by, while it is basely undermined, the fiery deluge 
will roll on, before which all that you hold dear, or venerable, 
or sacred, will wither into ashes. Believe no one who tells you 
that the friends of freedom are now, or ever were, the enemies 
of religion. They know too well that rebellion against God 
cannot prove the basis of government for man, and that the loft- 
iest structure impiety can raise is but the Babel monument of 
its impotence and its pride : mocking the builders with a mo- 
ment's strength, and then covering them with inevitable confu- 
sion. Do you want an example ? — only look to France. The 
microscopic vision of your rabble blasphemers has not sight 
enough to contemplate the mighty minds which commenced her 
revolution. The wit — the sage — the orator — the hero — the 
whole family of genius furnished forth their treasures, and gave 
them nobly to the nation's exigence. They had great provo- 



126 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER 

cation — they had a glorious cause — they had all that human 
potency could give them. But they relied too much upon this 
human potency — they abjured their God, and, as a natural 
consequence they murdered their king — they culled their pol- 
luted deities from the brothel, and the fall of the idol extinguished 
the flame of the altar. They crowded the scaffold with all their 
country held of genius or of virtue, and when the peerage and the 
prelacy were exhausted, the mob-executioner of to-day became 
the mob- victim of to-morrow. No sex was spared — no age 
respected — no suffering pitied : and all this they did in the sacred 
name of liberty, though in the deluge of human blood, they left 
not a mountain-top for the ark of liberty to rest on. But Prov- 
idence was neither " dead nor sleeping." It mattered not that 
for a moment their impiety seemed to prosper — that victory 
panted after their ensanguined banners — that as their insatiate 
eagle soared against the sun, he seemed but to replume his wing 
and to renew his vision : it was only for a moment : and you see 
at last that in the very banquet of their triumph, the Almighty's 
vengeance blazed upon the wall, and their diadem fell from the 
brow of the idolater. Phillips. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



My lord, I will not abjure the altar, the throne, and the con- 
stitution, for the bloody tinsel of this revolutionary pantomime. 
I prefer my God to the impious democracy of their pantheon. 
I will not desert my king for the political equality of their pan- 
demonium. I must see some better authority than the Fleet- 
street temple, before I forego the principles which I imbibed in 
my youth, and to which I look forward as the consolation of my 
age ; those all-protecting principles which at once guard, and 
consecrate, and sweeten the social intercourse — which give life, 
happiness ; and death, hope — which constitute man's purity his 
best protection, placing the infant's cradle and the female's couch 
beneath the sacred shelter of the nation's morality. Neither 
Mr. Paine or Mr. Palmer, nor all the venom-breathing brood, 
shall swindle from me the Book where I have learned these 
precepts. 

In despite of all their scoff, and scorn, and menacing, I 
say of the sacred volume they would obliterate, it is a book of 
facts, as well authenticated as any heathen history — a book of 
miracles, incontestibly avouched — a book of prophecy, confirmed 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 127 

by past as well as present fulfillment — a book of poetry pure 
and natural, and elevated even to inspiration — a book of morals, 
such as human wisdom never framed for the perfection of human 
happiness. My lord, I will abide by the precepts, admire the 
beauty, revere the mysteries, and, as far as in me lies, practice 
the mandates of this sacred volume : and should the ridicule of 
earth, and the blasphemy of hell assail me, I shall console myself 
by the contemplation of those blessed spirits, who in the same- 
holy cause have toiled, and shone, and suffered. In the "goodly 
fellowship of the saints" — in the ''noble army of martyrs" — in 
the society of the great, and good, and wise of every nation, — 
if my sinfulness be not cleansed, and my darkness illuminated, 
at least my pretensionless submission may be excused. If I err 
with the luminaries I have chosen for my guides, I confess myself 
captivated with the loveliness of their aberrations. If they err, 
it is in a heavenly region — if they wander, it is in the fields of 
light — if they aspire, it is at all events a glorious daring ; and 
rather than sink with infidelity into the dust, I am content to 
cheat myself with their vision of eternity. It may indeed be 
nothing but delusion, but then I err with the disciples of philos- 
ophy and of virtue — with men who have drunk deep at the 
fountain of human knowledge, but who dissolved not the pearl 
of their salvation in the draught. I err with Bacon, the great 
Bacon — the great confidant of nature, fraught with all the learn- 
ing of the past, and almost prescient of the future ; yet too wise 
not to know his weakness, and too philosophic not to feel his 
ignorance. I err with Milton, rising on an angel's wing to 
heaven, and like the bird of morn, soaring out of sight, amid 
the music of his grateful piety. I err with Locke, whose pure 
philosophy only taught him to adore its source, whose warm 
love of genuine liberty was never chilled into rebellion with its 
author. I err with Newton, whose star-like spirit shot athwart 
the darkness of the sphere, too soon to reascend to the home 
of his nativity. With men like these, my lord, I shall remain 
in error ; nor shall I desert those errors even for the drunken 
death-bed of a Paine, or the delirious war-whoop of the surviv- 
ing fiends who would erect his altar on the ruins of society. 

In my opinion, it is difficult to say, whether their tenets are 
more ludicrous, or more detestable. They will not obey the 
king, or the prince, or the parliament, or the constitution ; but 
they will obey anarchy. They will not believe in the prophets — 
in Moses — in the apostles — in Christ ; but they believe Tom 
Paine ! With no government but confusion, and no creed but 
skepticism, I believe in my soul they would abjure the one if it 
became legitimate, and rebel against the other if it was once 



128 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

established. Holding, my lord, opinions such as these, I should 
consider myself culpable, if at such a crisis I did not declare 
them. A lover of my country, I yet draw a line between patriotism 
and rebellion. A warm friend to liberty of conscience, I will not 
confound toleration with infidelity. With all its ambiguity, I 
shall die in the doctrines of the Christian faith ; and with all its 
errors, I am contented to live under the glorious safeguards of 
the British constitution. Phillips. 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



If Napoleon's fortune was great, his genius was transcend- 
ent ; decision flashed upon his counsels ; and it was the same to 
decide and to perform. To inferior intellects, his combinations 
appeared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable ; 
but, in his hands, simplicity marked their development, and 
success vindicated their adoption. 

His person partook the character of his mind — if the one 
never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field. 

Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount — space no 
opposition that he did not spurn ; and whether amid Alpine 
rocks, Arabian sands, or polar snows, he seemed proof against 
peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The whole continent of 
Europe trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and 
the miracle of their execution. Skepticism bowed to the prodi- 
gies of his performance ; romance assumed the air of history ; 
nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for 
expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving 
his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions 
of antiquity became common places in his contemplation ; kings 
were his people — nations were his outposts ; and he disposed 
of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, 
as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! 

Through this pantomime of his policy, fortune played the 
clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars 
reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color 
of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, 
changed places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent 
defeat assumed the appearance of victory — his flight from Egypt 
confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. 

Amid all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. It 
mattered little whether in the field or the drawing room — with 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 129 

the mob or the levee — wearing the Jacobin bonnet or the iron 
crown — banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburgh — 
dictating peace on a raft to the czar of Russia, or contemplating 
defeat at the gallows of Leipsic — he was still the same military 
despot ! Phillips. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



Cradled in the camp, Bonaparte was to the last hour the 
darling of the army ; and whether in the camp or the cabinet, 
he never forsook a friend or forgot a favor. Of all his soldiers, 
not one abandoned him, till affection was useless ; and their first 
stipulation was for the safety of their favorite. 

They knew well that if he was lavish of them, he was prodi- 
gal of himself ; and that if he exposed them to peril, he repaid 
them with plunder. For the soldier, he subsidized every peo- 
ple ; to the people he made even pride pay tribute. The victo- 
rious veteran glittered with his gains ; and the capital, gorgeous 
with the spoils of art, became the miniature metropolis of the 
universe. In this wonderful combination, his affectation of 
literature must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he 
affected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he 
encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors and the 
murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learn- 
ing ! — the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the 
denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the bene- 
factor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher 
of England. 

Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such 
an individual consistency, were never united in the same char- 
acter. A royalist — a republican and an emperor — a Moham- 
medan — a Catholic and a patron of the synagogue — a subal- 
tern and a sovereign — a traitor and a tyrant — a Christian 
and an infidel — he was; through all his vicissitudes, the same 
stern, impatient, inflexible original — the same mysterious incom- 
prehensible self — the man without a model, and without a 
shadow. 

His fall, like his life, baffled all speculation. In short, his 
whole history was like a dream to the world, and no man can 
tell how or why he was awakened from the reverie. 

That he has done much evil, there is little doubt ; that he has 
been the origin of much good, there is just as little. Through 
his means, intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and France have 



130 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

arisen to the blessings of a free constitution ; superstitioji has 
found her grave in the ruins of the inquisition ; and the feudal 
system, with its whole train of tyrannic satellites, has fled for- 
ever. Kings may learn from him that their safest study, as 
well as their noblest, is the interest of the people ; the people 
are taught by him that there is no despotism so stupendous 
against which they have not a resource ; and to those who 
would rise upon the ruins of both, he is a living lesson, that if 
ambition can raise them from the lowest station, it can also 
prostrate them from the highest. hillips. 



APPEAL TO THE JURY AGAINST BLAKE. 

Oh, gentlemen, am I this day only the counsel of my client ? 
No, no ; I am the advocate of humanity — of yourselves — your 
homes — your wives — your families — your little children. I 
am glad that this case exhibits such atrocity ; unmarked as it is 
by any mitigatory feature, it may stop the frightful advance of 
this calamity ; it will be met now, and marked with vengeance. 
If it be not, farewell to the virtues of your country ; farewell to 
all confidence between man and man ; farewell to that unsuspi- 
cious and reciprocal tenderness, without which marriage is but 
a consecrated curse. If oaths are to be violated, laws disre- 
garded, friendship betrayed, humanity trampled, national and 
individual honor stained, and if a jury of fathers and of hus- 
bands will give such miscreancy a passport to their homes, and 
wives, and daughters, — farewell to all that yet remains of Ire- 
land ! But I will not cast such a doubt upon the character of 
my country. Against the sneer of the foe, and the skepticism 
of the foreigner, I will still point to the domestic virtues, that no 
perfidy could barter, and no bribery can purchase, that with a 
Roman usage, at once embellish and consecrate households, giv- 
ing to the society of the hearth all the purity of the altar ; that 
lingering alike in the palace and the cottage, are still to be found 
scattered over this land — the relic of what she was — the source 
perhaps of what she may be — the lone, the stately, and mag- 
nificent memorials, that rearing their majesty amid surrounding 
ruins, serve at once as the landmarks of the departed glory, 
and the models by which the future may be erected. 

Preserve those virtues with a vestal fidelity ; mark this day, 
by your verdict, your horror of their profanation ; and believe 
me, when the hand which records that verdict shall be dust, and 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 131 

the tongue that asks it, traceless in the grave, many a happy- 
home will bless its consequences, and many a mother teach her 
little child to hate the impious treason of adultery. Phillips. 






APPEAL TO THE JURY IN BEHALF OF O'MULLAN. 

We must picture to ourselves a young man, partly by the self- 
denial of parental love, partly by the energies of personal exer- 
tion, struggling into a profession, where, by the pious exercise 
of his talents, he may make the fame, the wealth, the flatteries 
of this world, so many angel heralds to the happiness of the 
next. His precept is a treasure to the poor ; his practice, a 
model to the rich. When he reproves, sorrow seeks his presence 
as a sanctuary ; and in his path of peace, should he pause by 
the death-bed of despairing sin, the soul becomes imparadised 
in the light of his benediction ! Imagine, gentlemen, you see 
him thus ; and then, if you can, imagine vice so desperate as to 
defraud the world of so fair a vision. Anticipate for a moment 
the melancholy evidence we must too soon adduce to you. 
Behold him, by foul, deliberate and infamous calumny, robbed 
of the profession he had so struggled to obtain ; swindled from 
the flock he had so labored to ameliorate ; torn from the school 
where infant virtue vainly mourns an artificial orphanage ; hunted 
from the home of his youth, from the friends of his heart, a' 
hopeless, fortuneless, companionless exile, hanging, in some 
stranger scene, on the precarious pity of the few, whose charity 
might induce their compassion to bestow what this remorseless 
slanderer would compel their justice to withhold ! I will not 
pursue this picture ; I will not detain you from the pleasure of 
your possible compensation ; for oh ! divine is the pleasure you 
are destined to experience ; — dearer to your hearts shall be the 
sensation, than to your pride shall be the dignity it will give you. 
What ! though the people will hail the saviors of their pastor : 
what ! though the priesthood will hallow the guardians of their 
brother ; though many a peasant heart will leap at your name, 
and many an infant eye will embalm their fame who restored to 
life, to station, to dignity, to character, the venerable friend who 
taught their trembling tongues to lisp the rudiments of virtue 
and religion ; still dearer than all will be the consciousness of 
the deed. Nor, believe me, countrymen, will it rest here. Oh 
no : if there be light in instinct, or truth in revelation, believe 
me, at that awful hour, when you shall await the last inevitable 



132 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

verdict, the eye of your hope will not be the less bright, nor the 
agony of your ordeal the more acute, because you shall have, by 
this day's deed, redeemed the Almighty's persecuted apostle 
from the grasp of an insatiate malice — from the fang of a 
worse than Philistine persecution. phillips. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



I am told they triumph much in this conviction. I seek not 
to impugn the verdict of that jury ; I have no doubt they acted 
conscientiously. It weighs not with me that every member of 
my client's creed was carefully excluded from that jury — no 
doubt they acted conscientiously . It weighs not with me that 
every man impanneled on the trial of the priest were exclusively 
Protestant, and that, too, in a city so prejudiced, that not long 
ago, by their corporation law, no Catholic dared breathe the air 
of heaven within its walls — no doubt they acted conscientiously. 
It weighs not with me, that not three days previously, one of that 
jury was heard publicly to declare, he wished he could persecute 
the papist to his death — no doubt they acted conscientiously. 
It weighs not with me that the public mind had been so inflamed 
by the exasperation of this libeler that an impartial trial was 
utterly impossible. Let them enjoy their triumph. But for my- 
self, knowing him as I do, here in the teeth of that conviction, I 
declare it, I would rather be that man, so aspersed, so impris- 
oned, so persecuted, and have his consciousness, than stand the 
highest of the courtliest rabble that ever crouched before the 
foot of power, or fed upon the people -plundered alms of despotism. 
Oh ! of short duration is such demoniac triumph. Oh ! blind 
and groundless is the hope of vice, imagining that its victory can 
be more than for the moment. This very day I hope will prove 
that if virtue suffers, it is but for a season ; and that sooner or 
later, their patience tried, and their purity testified, prosperity 
will crown the interests of probity and worth. phillips. 



APPEAL TO THE JURY AGAINST DILLON. 

I am told, indeed, this gentleman entertains an opinion, preva- 
lent enough in the age of a feudalism, as arrogant as it was bar- 
barous, that the poor are only a species of property, to be treated 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. . 133 

according to interest or caprice ; and that wealth is "at once a 
patent for crime, and an exemption from its consequences. Hap- 
pily for this land, the day of such opinions has passed over it ; 
the eye of a purer feeling and more profound philosophy now 
beholds riches but as one of the aids to virtue, and sees in 
oppressed poverty only an additional stimulus to increased pro- 
tection. A generous heart cannot help feeling, that in cases of 
this kind the poverty of the injured is a dreadful aggravation. 
If the rich suffer, they have much to console them ; but when a 
poor man loses the darling of his heart — the sole pleasure with 
which nature blessed him — how abject, how cureless is the 
despair of his destitution ! Believe me, gentlemen, you have 
not only a solemn duty to perform, but you have an awful responsi- 
bility imposed upon you. You are this day,, in some degree, 
trustees for the morality of the people — perhaps of the whole 
nation ; for, depend upon it, if the sluices of immorality are once 
opened among the lower orders, the frightful tide, drifting upon 
its surface all that is dignified or dear, will soon rise even to the 
habitations of the highest. I feel, gentlemen, I have discharged 
my duty — I am sure you will do yours. I repose my client with 
confidence in your hands ; and most fervently do I hope, that 
when evening shall find you at your happy fireside, surrounded 
by the sacred circle of your children, you may not feel the heavy 
curse gnawing at your heart, of having let loose, unpunished, 
the prowler that may devour them. Phillips. 



ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 

There is, however, one subject connected with this trial, public 
in its nature, and universal in its interest, which imperiously calls 
for an exemplary verdict ; I mean the liberty of the press — a 
theme which I approach with mingled sensations of awe, and 
agony, and admiration. Considering all that we too fatally have 
seen — all that, perhaps, too fearfully we may have cause to 
apprehend, I feel myself cling to that residuary safeguard, with 
an affection no temptation can seduce, with a suspicion no ano- 
dyne can lull, with a fortitude that peril but infuriates. In the 
direful retrospect of experimental despotism, and the hideous 
prospect of its possible reanimation, I clasp it with the despera- 
tion of a widowed female, who, in the desolation of her house, 
and the destruction of her household, hurries the last of her 
offspring through the flames, at once the relic of her joy, the 



134 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

depository of her wealth, and the remembrancer of her happi- 
ness. It is the duty of us all to guard strictly this inestimable 
privilege — a privilege which can never be destroyed, save by 
the licentiousness of those who willfully abuse it. No, it is not 
in the arrogance of power — no, it is not in the artifices of law — 
no, it is not in the fatuity of princes — no, it is not in the venal- 
ity of parliaments — to crush this mighty, this majestic privilege ! 
Reviled, it will remonstrate ; murdered, it will revive ; buried, it 
will reascend. The very attempt at its oppression, will prove 
the truth of its immortality ; and the atom that presumed to 
spurn, will fade away before the trumpet of its retribution. Man 
holds it on the same principle that he does his soul : the powers 
of this world cannot prevail against it, it can only perish through 
its own depravity. What then shall be his fate, through whose 
instrumentality it shall be sacrificed ! Nay more, what shall 
be his fate, who, intrusted with the guardianship of its security, 
becomes the traitorous accessary to its ruin ? Nay more, what 
shall be his fate by whom its powers, delegated for the public 
good, are converted into the calamities of private virtue ; against 
whom, industry denounced, merit undermined, morals calumni- 
ated, piety aspersed, all through the means confided for their 
protection, cry aloud for vengeance ? What shall be his fate ? 
Oh, I would hold such a monster, so protected, so sanctified, and 
so sinning, as I would some demon, who going forth, consecrated 
in the name of Deity, the book of life on his lips and the dagger 
of death beneath his robe, awaits the sigh of piety as the signal 
of plunder, and unveins the heart's blood of confiding adoration. 

PHILLIPS. 



THE ADVANTAGES OF EDUCATION. 

No doubt you have all personally considered — no doubt 
you have all personally experienced, that of all the blessings 
which it has pleased Providence to allow us to cultivate, there 
is not one which breathes a purer fragrance, or bears a heaven- 
lier aspect, than education. It is a companion which no misfor- 
tunes can depress, no clime destroy, no enemy alienate, no des- 
potism enslave : at home a friend, abroad an introduction, in 
solitude a solace, in society an ornament : it chastens vice, it 
guides virtue, it gives at once a grace and government to genius. 
Without it, what is man ? A splendid slave ! a reasoning 
savage, vacillating between the dignity of an intelligence derived 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 135 

from God, and the degradation of passions participated with 
brutes ; and in the accident of their alternate ascendancy shud- 
dering at the terrors of an hereafter, or embracing the horrid 
hope of annihilation. What is this wondrous world of his 
residence ? 

" A mighty maze, and all without a plan ;" 

a dark and desolate and dreary cavern, without wealth, or orna- 
ment or order. But light up within it the torch of knowledge, 
and how wondrous the transition ! The seasons change, the 
atmosphere breathes, the landscape lives, earth unfolds its fruits, 
ocean rolls in its magnificence, the heavens display their constel- 
lated canopy, and the grand animated spectacle of nature rises 
revealed before him, its varieties regulated, and its mysteries 
resolved ! The phenomena which bewilder, the prejudices which 
debase, the superstitions which enslave, vanish before education. 
Like the holy symbol which blazed upon the cloud before the 
hesitating Constantine, if man follow but its precepts, purely, it 
will not only lead him to the victories of this world, but open 
the very portals of Omnipotence for his admission. Cast your 
eye over the monumental map of ancient grandeur, once studded 
with the stars of empire and the splendors of philosophy. 
What erected the little state of Athens into a powerful common- 
wealth, placing in her hand the sceptre of legislation, and wreath- 
ing round her brow the imperishable chaplet of literary fame ? 
what extended Rome, the haunt of banditti, into universal em- 
pire ? what animated Sparta with that high, unbending, adamant- 
ine courage, which conquered nature herself, and has fixed her in 
the sight of future ages, a model of public virtue, and a proverb 
of national independence ? What but those wise public institu- 
tions which strengthened their minds with early application, 
informed their infancy with the principles of action, and sent 
them into the world, too vigilant to be deceived by its calms, 
and too vigorous to be shaken by its wirlwinds ? Phillips. 



APPEAL TO THE JUPvY IN BEHALF OF GUTHRIE. 

I do not doubt that you will discharge yourselves of it as be- 
comes your characters. I am sure, indeed, that you will mourn 
with me over the almost solitary defect in our otherwise match- 
less system of jurisprudence, which leaves the perpetrators of 
such an injury as this subject to no amercement but that of 



136 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

inoney. I think you will lament the failure of the great Cicero 
of our age, to bring such an offense within the cognizance of a 
criminal jurisdiction ; it was a subject suited to his legislative 
mind, worthy of his feeling heart, worthy of his immortal elo- 
quence. I cannot, my lord, even remotely allude to Lord 
Erskine, without gratifying myself by saying of him, that, by 
the rare union of all that was learned in law with all that was 
lucid in eloquence, by the singular combination of all that was 
pure in morals with all that was profound in wisdom ; he has 
stamped upon every action of his life the blended authority of a 
great mind and an unquestionable conviction. I think, gentle- 
men, you will regret the failure of such a man in such an object. 
The merciless murderer may have manliness to plead ; the 
highway robber may have want to palliate ; yet they both are 
objects of criminal infliction : but the murderer of connubial bliss, 
who commits his crime in secrecy — the robber of domestic 
joys, whose very wealth, as in this case, may be his instrument 
— he is suffered to calculate on the infernal fame which a super- 
flous and unfelt expenditure may purchase. The law, however, 
is so, and we must only adopt the remedy it affords us. In 
your adjudication of that remedy, I do not ask too much, when 
I ask the full extent of your capability ; how poor, even so, is 
the wretched remuneration for an injury which nothing can 
repair, for a loss which nothing can alleviate ? Do you think 
that a mine could recompense my client for the forfeiture of her 
who was dearer than life to him ? 

" Oh, had she been but true, 
Though heaven had made him such another world 
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, 
He 'd not exchange her for it !" 
I put it to any of you, what would you take to stand in his 
situation ? What would you take to have your prospects blasted, 
your profession despoiled, your peace ruined, your bed profaned, 
your parents heart-broken, your children parentless ? 

Believe, gentlemen, if it were not for those children, he would 
not come here to-day to seek such remuneration ; if it were not that, 
by your verdict, you may prevent those little innocent defrauded 
wretches from becoming wandering beggars, as well as orphans 
on the face of this earth. Oh, I know I need not ask this ver- 
dict from your mercy ; I need not extort it from your compas- 
sion ; I will receive it from your justice. I do conjure you, 
not as fathers, but as husbands : — not as husbands, but as 
citizens : — not as citizens, but as men : — not as men, but as 
Christians : — by all your obligations, public, private, moral, 
and religious ; by the hearth profaned ; by the home desolated ; 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 137 

by the canons of the living God foully spurned ; — save, oh ! 
save your firesides from the contagion, your country from the 
crime, and perhaps thousands, yet unborn, from the shame, and 
sin, and sorrow of this example ! ■ phillips. 



AN APPEAL TO THE JURY. 



I will not now stop to inquire whose property the city may be 
considered to be ; but the learned gentleman seems to forget, 
that the election by that city, to whomsoever it may belong, is 
absolutely void, without the approbation of that very lord lieu- 
tenant, who is the prosecutor in this case. I do therefore repeat, 
gentlemen, that not a man of you has been called in that box by 
the voice of my client ; that he has had no power to object to a 
single man among you, though the crown has : and that you 
yourselves must feel under what influence you are chosen, or for 
what qualifications you are particularly selected. At a moment 
when this wretched land is shaken to its centre by the dreadful 
conflicts of the different branches of the community ; between 
those who call themselves the partisans of liberty, and those that 
call themselves the partisans of power : between the advocates 
of infliction, and the advocates of suffering ; upon such a ques- 
tion as the present, and at such a season, can any man be at a 
loss to guess from what class of character and opinion a friend 
to either party would resort for that jury, which was to decide 
between both ? I trust, gentlemen, you know me too well to 
suppose that I could be capable of treating you with any per- 
sonal disrespect ; I am speaking to you in the honest confidence 
of your fellow-citizen. When I allude to those unworthy impu- 
tations of supposed bias, or passion, or partiality, that may have 
marked you out for your present situation, I do so in order to 
warn you of the ground on which you stand, of the point of 
awful responsibility in which you are placed, to your conscience, 
and to your country ; and to remind you, that if you have been 
put into that box from any unworthy reliance on your complai- 
sance or your servility, you have it your power before you leave 
it, to refute and to punish so vile an expectation by the integrity 
of your verdict ; to remind you that you have it in your power 
to show to as many Irishmen as yet linger in this country, that 
all law and justice have not taken their flight with our prosperity 
and peace ; that the sanctity of an oath, and the honesty of a 
12 



-. 



138 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

juror are not dead amongst us ; and that if our courts of justice 
are superseded by so many strange and terrible tribunals, it is not 
because they are deficient either in wisdom or virtue. curran. 



THE FALLEN WIFE. 

Well might she lament over her fallen fortunes ! well might 
she mourn over the memory of days when the sun of heaven 
seemed to rise but for her happiness ! well might she recall the 
home she had endeared, the children she had nursed, the hapless 
husband, of whose life she was the pulse ! But one short week 
before, this earth could not reveal a lovelier vision : — virtue 
blessed, affection followed, beauty beamed on her : the fight of 
every eye, the charm of every heart, she moved along in cloud- 
less chastity, cheered by the song of love, and circled by the 
splendors she created ! Behold her now, the loathsome refuse 
of an adulterous bed ; festering in the very infection of her crime ; 
the scoff and scorn of their unmanly, merciless, inhuman author ! 
But thus it ever is with the votaries of guilt ; the birth of their 
crime is the death of their enjoyment ; and the wretch who flings 
his offering on its altar, falls an immediate victim to the flame of 
his devotion. I am glad it is so ; it is a wise, retributive dispen- 
sation ; it bears the stamp of a preventive Providence. I rejoice 
it is so, in the present instance, first, because this premature 
infliction must insure repentance in the wretched sufferer : and 
next, because, as this adulterous fiend has rather acted on the 
suggestions of his nature than his shape, by rebelling against the 
finest impulse of man, he has made himself an outlaw from the 
sympathies of humanity. Why should he expect that charity 
from you, which he would not spare even to the misfortunes he 
had inflicted ? For the honor of the form in which he is dis- 
guised, I am willing to hope he was so blinded by his vice, that 
he did not see the full extent of those misfortunes. If he had 
feelings capable of being touched, it is not to the faded victim of 
her own weakness, and of his wickedness, that I would direct 
them. There is something in her crime which affrights charity 
from its commiseration. Phillips. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



But, gentlemen, there is one, over whom pity may mourn, — 
for he is wretched ; and moum without a blush, — for he is guilt- 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 139 

less. How shall I depict to you the deserted husband? To every 
other object in this catalogue of calamity there is one stain 
attached which checks compassion. But here — oh ! if ever 
there was a man amiable, it was that man — oh ! if ever there 
was a husband fond, it was that husband. His hope, his joy, his 
ambition was domestic ; his toils were forgotten in the affections 
of his home ; and amid every adverse variety of fortune, hope 
pointed to his children, — and he was comforted. By this vile 
act that hope is blasted, that house is a desert, those children are 
parentless ! In vain do they look to their surviving parent : his 
heart is broken, his mind is in ruins : his very form is fading from 
the earth. He had one consolation, an aged mother, on whose 
life the remnant of his fortunes hung, and on whose protection 
of his children his remaining prospects rested ; even that is over ; 
she could not survive his shame, she never raised her head, she 
became hearsed in his misfortune ; — he has followed her funeral. 
If this be not the climax of human misery, tell me in what does 
human misery consist ? Wife, parent, fortune, prospects, hap- 
piness, — all gone at once, — and gone forever ! For my part, 
when I contemplate this, I do not wonder at the impression it 
has produced on him ; I do not wonder at the faded form, the 
dejected air, the emaciated countenance, and all the ruinous and 
moldering trophies, by which misery has marked its triumph 
over youth, and health, and happiness ? I know, that in the 
hordes of what is called fashionable life, there is a sect of phi- 
losophers, wonderfully patient of their fellow-creatures' suffer- 
ings ; men too insensible to feel for any one, or too selfish to feel 
for others. I trust there is not one amongst you who can even 
hear of such calamities without affliction ; or if there be, I pray 
that he may never know their import by experience ; that having, 
in the wilderness of this world, but one dear darling object, with- 
out whose participation bliss would be joyless, and in whose 
sympathies sorrow has found a charm ; whose smile has cheered 
his toil, whose love has pillowed his misfortunes, whose angel- 
spirit, guiding him through danger, and darkness, and despair, 
amid the world's frown and the friend's perfidy, was more than 
friend, and world, and all to him ! — God forbid, that by a villain's 
wile, or a villain's wickedness, he should be taught how to appre- 
ciate the woe of others in the dismal solitude of his own. Oh, 
no ! I feel that I address myself to human beings, who, knowing 
the value of what the world is worth, are capable of appreciating 
all that makes it dear to us. philltps. 



140 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



CURRAN AGAINST MR. JUSTICE JOHNSON. 

I cannot but observe the sort of scenic preparation with which 
this sad drama is sought to be brought forward. In part I ap- 
prove it ; in part it excites my disgust and indignation . I am 
glad to find that the attorney and solicitor general, the natural 
and official prosecutors for the state, do not appear ; and I infer 
from their absence, that his excellency the lord lieutenant dis- 
claims any personal concern in this execrable transaction. I 
think it does him much honor ; it is a conduct that equally 
agrees with the dignity of his character and the feelings of his 
heart. To his private virtues, whenever he is left to their influ- 
ence, I willingly concur in giving the most unqualified tribute 
of respect. And I do firmly believe, it is with no small regret 
that he suffers his name to be even formally made use of, in 
avowing for a return of one of the judges of the land, with as 
much indifference and nonchalance as if he were a beast of the 
plough. I observe too, the dead silence into which the public 
is frowned by authority for the sad occasion. No man dares to 
mutter ; no newspaper dares to whisper that such a question is 
afloat. It seems an inquiry among the tombs, or rather in the 
shades beyond them, 

Ibant sola sub nocte per umbram. 

I am glad it is so — I am glad of this factitious dumbness ; for 
if murmurs dared to become audible, my voice would be too 
feeble to drown them ; but when all is hushed — when nature 
sleeps — 

Cum quies mortalibus eegris, 

the weakest voice is heard — the shepherd's whistle shoots across 
the listening darkness of the interminable heath, and gives notice 
that the wolf is upon his walk ; and the same gloom and stillness 
that tempt the monster to come abroad, facilitate the communi- 
cation of the warning to beware. Yes, through that silence the 
voice shall be heard ; yes, through that silence the shepherd 
shall be put upon his guard ; yes, through that silence shall the 
felon savage be chased into the toil. Yes, my lords, I feel 
myself cheered and impressed by the composed and dignified 
attention with which I see you are disposed to hear me on the 
most important question that has ever been subjected to your 
consideration ; the most important to the dearest rights of the 
human being ; the most deeply interesting and animating that 
can beat in his heart, or burn upon his tongue — Oh ! how recre- 
ating is it to feel that occasions may arise in which the soul of 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 141 

man may resume her pretensions ;.in which she hears the voice 
of nature whisper to her, os komini sublime dedi coelumque tueri ; 
in which even I can look zip with calm security to the court, and 
down with the most profound contempt upon the reptile I mean 
to tread upon ! I say, reptile ; because, when the proudest man 
in society becomes so the dupe of his childish malice, as to wish 
to inflict on the object of his vengeance the poison of his sting, 
to do a reptile's work he must shrink into a reptile's dimension ; 
and so shrunk, the only way to assail him is to tread upon him. 



THE SAME CONTINUED. 

I may be told, that I am putting imaginary and ludicrous, but 
not probable, and therefore, not supposable cases. But I an- 
swer, that reasoning would be worthy only of a slave, and dis- 
graceful to a freeman. I answer, that the condition and essence 
of rational freedom is, not that the subject probably will not be 
abused, but that no man in the state shall be clothed with any 
discretionary power, under the color and pretext of which he 
can dare to abuse him. As to probability, I answer, that in the 
mind of man there is no more instigating temptation to the most 
remorseless oppression, than the rancor and malice of irritated 
pride and wounded vanity. — To the argument of improbability, 
I answer, the very fact, the very question in debate, nor to such 
answer can I see the possibility of any reply, save that the 
prosecutors are so heartily sick of the point of view into which 
they have put themselves by their prosecution, that the}?- are not 
likely again to make a similar experiment. But when I see any 
man fearless of power, because it possibly, or probably, may not 
be exercised upon him, I am astonished at his fortitude ; I am 
astonished at the tranquil courage of any man who can quietly 
see that a loaded cannon is brought to bear upon him, and that 
a fool is setting at its touch-hole with a lighted match in his 
hand. And yet, my lords, upon a little reflection, what is it, 
after what we have seen, that should surprise us, however it 
may shock us ? What have the last ten years of the world been 
employed in, but in destroying the landmarks of rights, and 
duties, and obligations ; in substituting* sounds in the place of 
sense ; in substituting a vile and canting methodism in the place 
of social duty and practical honor ; in suffering virtue to evapo- 
rate into phrase, and morality into hypocrisy and affectation ? — 
We talk of the violations of Hamburgh or of Baden ; we talk of 



142 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the despotical and remorseless barbarian who tramples on the 
common privileges of the human being ; who, in defiance of the 
most known and sacred rights, issues the brutal mandate of 
usurped authority ; who brings his victim by force within the 
limits of a jurisdiction to which he never owed obedience, and 
there butchers him for a constructive offense. Does it not seem 
as if ifc was a contest whether we should be more scurrilous in 
invective, or more atrocious in imitation ? Into what a condition 
must we be sinking, when we have the front to select as the sub- 
jects of our obloquy those very crimes which we have flung 
behind us in the race of profligate rivality ! curran. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



Such, I am satisfied, was the counsel given ; but I have no 
apprehension for my client, because it was not taken. Even if 
it should be his fate to be surrendered to his keepers — to be 
torn from his family — to have his obsequies performed by torch- 
fight — to be carried to a foreign land and to a strange tribunal, 
where no witness can attest his innocence, where no voice that 
he ever heard can be raised in his defense ; where he must stand 
mute, not of his malice, but the malice of his enemies — yes, 
even so, I see nothing for him to fear ; that all- gracious Being, 
that shields the feeble from the oppressor, will fill his heart with 
hope, and confidence, and courage ; his sufferings will be his 
armor, and his weaknbSo will be his strength. He will find him- 
self in the hands of a brave, a just and a generous nation. He 
will find that the bright examples of her Russells and her Sid- 
neys have not been lost to her children ; they will behold him 
with sympathy and respect, and his persecutors with shame and 
abhorrence. They will feel, too, that what is then his situation, 
may to-morrow be their own ; b^t their first tear will be shed 
for him, and the second only for themselves. Their hearts will 
melt in his acquittal ; they will convey him kindly and fondly to 
their shore ; and he will return in triumph to his country, to the 
threshold of his sacred home, and to the weeping welcome of 
his delighted family. He will find that the darkness of a dreary 
and fingering night hath at length passed away, and that joy 
cometh in the morning. — No, my lords, I have no fear for the 
ultimate safety of my client. Even in these very acts of brutal 
violence that have been committed against him, do I hail the 
flattering hope of final advantage to him, and of better days 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 143 

and more prosperous fortune for this afflicted country — - that 
country of which I have so often abandoned all hope, and which 
I have so often determined to quit forever. curran. 



CURRAN AGAINST THE MARQUIS OF HEADFORD. 

In the middle of the day, at the moment of Divine worship, 
when the miserable husband was on his knees, directing the 
prayers and thanksgivings of his congregation to their God — 
that moment did the remorseless adulterer choose to carry off 
the deluded victim from her husband, from her child, from her 
character, from her happiness ; as if not content to leave his 
crime confined to its miserable aggravations, unless he gave 
it the cast and color of factitious sacrilege and impiety. Oh, 
how happy had it been when he arrived at the bank of the river 
with the ill-fated fugitive, ere yet he had committed her to that 
boat, of which, like the fabled barque of Styx, the exile was eter- 
nal, how happy at that moment, so teeming with misery and 
with shame, if you, my lord, had met him, and could have ac- 
costed him in the character of that good genius which had aban- 
doned him. How impressively might you have pleaded the 
cause of the father, of the child, of the mother, and even of the 
worthless defendant himself. You would have said, "Is this the 
requital that you are about to make for respect and kindness and 
confidence in your honor ? Can you deliberately expose this 
young man, in the bloom of life, with all his hopes before him ? — 
can you expose him, a wretched outcast from society, to the scorn 
of a merciless world ? Can you set him adrift upon the tem- 
pestuous ocean of his own passions, at this early season when 
they are most headstrong ; and can you cut him out from the 
moorings of those domestic obligations by whose cable he might 
ride at safety from their turbulence ? Think of, if you can con- 
ceive it, what a powerful influence arises from the sense of home, 
from the sacred religion of the hearth, in quelling the passions, 
in reclaiming the wanderings, in correcting the discords of the 
human heart ; do not cruelly take from him the protection of these 
attachments. But if you have no pity for the father, have 
mercy at least upon his innocent and helpless child ; do not con- 
demn him to an education scandalous or neglected, — do not 
strike him into that most dreadful of all human conditions, the 
orphanage that springs not from the grave, that falls not from 



144 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the hand of Providence, or the stroke of death ; but comes 
before its time, anticipated and inflicted by the remorseless 
cruelty of parental guilt. 



NOBLE TRIBUTE TO LORD AVONMORE. 

I am not ignorant, my lord, that this extraordinary construc- 
tion has received the sanction of another court, nor of the sur- 
prise and dismay with which it smote upon the general heart of 
the bar. I am aware that I may have the mortification of being 
told, in another country, of that unhappy decision ; and I foresee 
in what confusion I shall hang down my head when I am told it. 
But I cherish too the consolatory hope, that I shall be able to tell 
them that I had an old and learned friend, whom I would put 
above all the sweepings of their hall, who was of a different 
opinion ; who had derived his ideas of civil liberty from the 
purest fountains of Athens and of Rome ; who had fed the 
youthful vigor of his studious mind with the theoretic knowledge 
of their wisest philosophers and statesmen ; and who had refined 
the theory into the quick and exquisite sensibility of moral 
instinct, by contemplating the practice of their most illustrious 
examples ; by dwelling on the sweet-souled piety of Cimon ; on 
the anticipated Christianity of Socrates ; on the gallant and pa- 
thetic patriotism of Epaminondas ; on that pure austerity of Fabri- 
cus, whom to move from his integrity would have been more 
difficult than to have pushed the sun from his course. I would 
add, that if he had seemed to hesitate, it was but for a moment ; 
that his hesitation was like the passing cloud that floats across 
the morning sun, and hides it from the view, and does so for a 
moment hide it, by involving the spectator without even approach- 
ing the face of the luminary : and this soothing hope I draw 
from the dearest and tenderest recollections of my life, from the 
remembrance of those Attic nights, and those refections of the 
gods which we have spent with those admired and respected and 
beloved companions who have gone before us ; — over whose 
ashes the most precious tears of Ireland have been shed : yes, 
my good lord, I see you do not forget them ; I see their sacred 
forms passing in sad review before your memory ; I see your 
pained and softened fancy recalling those happy meetings, when 
the innocent enjoyment of social mirth expanded into the nobler 
warmth of social virtue ; and the horizon of the board became 
enlarged into the horizon of man ; — when the swelling heart 
conceived and communicated the pure and generous purpose — 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 145 

when my slenderer and younger taper inbibed its oorrowed light 
from the more matured and redundant fountain of yours. Yes, 
my lord, we can remember those nights without any other regret - 
than that they can never more return, for 

" We spent them not in toys, or lust, or wine, 

But search of deep philosophy, 

Wit, eloquence and poesy, — 
Arts which I lov'd ; for they, my friend, were thine." 

CURRAN, 



PRINCE LEWIS' ANSWER TO THE POPE'S LEGATE. 

Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back ; 
I am too high-born to be propertied, 
To be a secondary at control, 
Or useful serving-man, and instrument, 
To any sovereign state throughout the world. 
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars, 
Between this chastised kingdom and myself, 
And brought in matter that should feed this fire ; 
And now 't is far too huge to be blown out 
With that same weak wind which enkindled it. 
You taught me how to know the face of right, 
Acquainted me with interest to this land, 
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart ; 
And come you now to tell me John hath made 
His peace with Rome ? What is that peace to me ? 
I, by the honor of my marriage-bed, 
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine ; 
And, now it is half conquered, must I back, 
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome ? 
Am I Rome's slave ? What penny hath Rome borne, 
What men provided, what munition sent, 
To underprop this action ? is 't not I 
That undergo this charge ? Who else but I, 
And such as to my claim are liable, 
Sweat in this business, and maintain this war ? 
Have I not heard these islanders shout out, 
Vive le roi ! as I have banked their towns ? 
Have I not here the best cards for the game, 
To win this easy match played for a crown ? 
And shall I now give o'er the yielded set ? 
No, on my soul, it never shall be said. 
13 



146 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Outside or inside, I will not return 
Till my attempt so much be glorified 
As to my ample hope was promised 
Before I drew this gallant head of war, 
And culled these fiery spirits from the world, 
To outlook conquest, and to win renown 
Even in the jaws of danger and of death. shakspeare. 



DESTINY OF THE HUMAN RACE UPON THE EARTH. 

How shall the destiny of the race be accomplished ? By 
sending the searching eye of science, and the warm current of 
philanthrophy into the social relations of man ; organizing labor 
so as to lift the yoke of poverty from the millions, and wrench 
the sceptre of tyranny and monopoly from the hands of the 
few ; by reorganizing the whole structure of society — so far as 
it is not constituted for the pure satisfaction, but for negation 
of the social and moral sentiments in man : consulting nothing 
but love in marriage ; nothing but friendship in the dealings of 
man with man ; nothing but a noble ambition, based upon 
natural superiority, in the determination of rank and precedence 
among men ; nothing but the genuine feeling of paternity in the 
relations of the old and young, strong and weak, patron and 
client, master and servant. Do you say these things are 
impossible ? Then is Christianity impossible. Then is man's 
destiny, written in blazing characters on his mental and moral 
constitution, a mere " blustering tale that is told, full of sound 
and fury, signifying nothing." Then the voices that come as 
from beyond the grave in the deep tones of bards and prophets, 
and the soul's whisper that seems to come from God, telling of 
future triumphs and unrealized glories, are but " from lying 
lips and a deceitful tongue." Then are all the great results of 
history, the mighty hopes of the future, the far reaching ener- 
gies of the present, and all the fruits for which man toils, not for 
himself, but for posterity, but the apples of Sodom, fair to 
the view, but dust and ashes to the taste. But no ; there is a 
better faith, a nobler hope, a juster apprehension of the 
future destiny of the race. Do you mark a battle-field at 
the moment of the raging contest ; when amidst the roar of can- 
non, the shrieks and tumult of a hellish fury, the groans of the 
dying, and the trampling thunder of ten thousand feet, man 
contends against his brother, deals death upon him, and tearful 



EARNEST DECLAMATION. 147 

sorrow upon those he holds dear — yet all unconscious of his 
fearful cruelty, while the thought of honor, or of country, or 
religion, fires his heart and nerves his arm ? Such is the present 
aspect of the life of man ; of his industrial system ; his compet- 
ative labors ; his civilization, commercial, political and religious. 
Do you mark that same battle-field, when the trodden grass 
has been upreared by the hand of nature, and strewed with 
flowers ; when under its deeply shadowing trees, the peaceful 
flocks appear ; and the cheerful song of birds is heard, and men 
in loving fellowship walk forth, therein enjoying and reciprocat- 
ing the sweet converse of sympathy and friendship ? Such is 
the destined condition of the race upon the earth ; when man 
shall realize every high ideal and noble aspiration of his nature ; 
when he shall remove every sorrow and degradation that bows 
down his spirit to the dust ; when science and art, philosophy 
and religion shall crown his head with glory and imparadise his 
earthly habitation ; when the visions of the prophet, the dreams 
of the poet, the aspirations of the philanthropist, the sacred 
hopes of the martyr, shall not merely fill with admiration the 
heart of youth, and quicken the sluggish pulses of old age, but 
shall stand realized in the full and glorious fruition of an im- 
perishable and noble destiny. Oh ! Hope, bear us on thy trem- 
bling wings to that sublime future ; and let thy sister, Faith, 
touch our eyes with her heaven-piercing power to see those 
divine images that ever beckon our souls upward to perfection, 
and fill its silent chambers with the far-off music and symphony 
of a new created world ! j. c. zachos. 



148 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



DECLAMATION. — VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 



EMPLOYMENT OF INDIANS IN CIVILIZED WARFARE. 

I am astonished ! — shocked ! to hear such principles con- 
fessed — to hear them avowed in this house, or in this country, 
principles equally unconstitutional, inhuman, and unchristian ! 

My lords, I did not intend to have encroached again upon 
your attention ; but I cannot repress my indignation. I feel 
myself impelled by every duty. My lords, we are called upon as 
members of this house, as men, as Christian men, to protest 
against such notions standing near the throne, polluting the ear 
of majesty. (l That God and nature put into our hands !" — I 
know not what ideas that lord may entertain of God and nature ; 
but I know that such abominable principles are equally abhor- 
rent to religion and humanity. What ! to attribute the sacred 
sanction of God and nature to the massacre of the Indian scalp- 
ing-knife — to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, roast- 
ing, and eating, literally, my lords, eating the mangled victims 
of his barbarous battles ! Such horrible notions shock every 
precept of religion, divine or natural, every generous feeling of 
humanity, and every sentiment of honor. 

These abominable principles, and this more abominable 
avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call 
upon that right reverend bench, those holy ministers of the gos- 
ple, and pious pastors of our church ; I conjure them to join in 
the holy work, and vindicate the religion of their God. I ap- 
peal to the wisdom and the law of this learned bench, to defend 
and support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops, 
to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn ; upon the 
learned judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save 
us from this pollution. I call upon the honor of your lordships, 
to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and maintain your 
own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, to 
vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the con- 
stitution. From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the im- 
mortal ancestors of this noble lord frown with indignation at the 
disgrace of his country. In vain he led your victorious fleets 
against the boasted armada of Spain ; in vain he defended and 
established the honor, the liberties, the religion, the protestant 
religion, of this country, against the arbitary cruelties of popery 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 149 

and the inquisition, if these more that popish cruelties and 
inquisitorial practices are let loose among us. — To turn forth into 
our settlements, among our ancient connections, friends, and 
relations, the merciless cannibal, thirsting for the blood of man, 
woman, and child ! to send forth the infidel savage — against 
whom ? against your protestant brethren ; to lay waste their 
country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race 
and name, with these horrible hell-hounds of savage war ! — hell- 
hounds, I say, of savage war. Chatham. 



MOLOCH AND SATAN, BEFORE THE POWERS OF HELL. 

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 
Of overboiling malice. Utterance long 
His passion mocked, and long he strove to tell 
His laboring ire ; still syllable none fell 
From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
For very fury ; from each hollow cell 
Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray. 

" This comes," at length burst from the furious chief, 
" This comes of dastard counsels ! Here behold 
The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold 
To sooth the powers that warred with heaven of old. 
Oh wise ! oh potent ! oh sagacious snare ! 
And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 
There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, 
While heaven subverts his reign and plants her standard there/ 5 

Here, as recovered, Satan fixed his eye 
Full on the speaker ; dark as it was stern ; 
He wrapped his black vest round him gloomily 
And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern. 
Him Moloch marked and strove again to turn 
His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried, 
" The lord of hell, who bade these legions spurn 
Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." 

Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue 
Hung quivering as if mad to quench its heat 
In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 
The famished tiger pants, when near his seat, 
Pressed on the sands, he marks the traveler's feet. 



150 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 

Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the seat 

Of the arch-fiend, all turned with one accord, 

As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. — white. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



" Ye powers of hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old. 
Who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah ? Who 
coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the Almighty ? Who, 
when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who 
first awoke and collected your scattered powers ? Lastly, who 
led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, 
and established that reign here which now totters to its base ? 
How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on 
Satan's bravery ? He, who preys only on the defenseless — 
who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of igno- 
ble cruelty and unequal contention ! Away with the boaster 
who never joins in action ; but, like a cormorant, hovers over 
the field, to feed upon the wounded and overwhelm the dying. 
True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation. 
Let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counseled purposes 
determinately. In power, we have learned by that experiment 
which lost us heaven, that we are inferior to the thunder-bearer : 
in subtilty — in subtilty alone, we are his equals. Open war is 
impossible. 

Thus shall we pierce our conqueror through the race 

Which, as himself, he loves ; thus, if we fall, 

We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 

Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 

Of vengeance rings within me ! Warriors all, 

The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. 

Away with coward wiles ! Death's coal-black pall 

Be now our standard ! Be our torch, the glare 

Of cities fired ! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air ! " 

WHITE. 



MARULLUS TO THE MOB. 



Wherefore rejoice that Csesar comes in triumph ? 
What conquest brings he home ? 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 151 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ? 

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! 

you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome ! 

Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 

Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, 

To towers, and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 

The live-long day with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome : 

And when you saw his chariot but appear, 

Have you not made a universal shout, 

That Tiber trembled underneath his bands, 

To hear the replication of your sounds, 

Made in his concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now call out a holiday ? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way, 

That comes in triumph over Pompey' s blood ? 

Begone — 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

That needs must light on this ingratitude. shakspeare. 



SPEECH OF RAAB KIUPRILL 

Hear me, 

Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria, 

Hear, and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I 

Stood in your presence, honored by the king, 

Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you, 

Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe ? 

Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear ? 

Who here dares charge me with an orphan's rights 

Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended ? 

And shall I now be branded by a traitor, 

A bought-bribed wretch, who, being called my son, 

Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant 

Hensbane aud aconite on a mother's grave ? 

Th' underling accomplice of a robber, 

That from a widow and a widow's offspring 

Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel, 

And to the common father of his country 



152 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

A recreant ingrate ! — 

What means this clamor ? Are these madmen's voices ? 

Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued 

To infamize the name of the king's brother 

With a black falsehood ? Unmanly cruelty, 

Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ? 

What mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here 

Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor ? 

One that has taken from you your sworn faith, 

And given you in return a Judas' bribe, 

Infamy now, oppression in reversion, 

And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ? 

Yet bear with me awhile ? Have I for this 

Bled for your safety, conquered for your honor ? 

Was it for this, Illyrians ! that I forded 

Your thaw-swollen torrents, when the shouldering ice 

Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points 

With gore from wounds I felt not ? Did the blast 

Beat on this body, frost and famine-numbed, 

Till my hard flesh distinguish'd not itself 

From the insensate mail, its fellow-warrior ? 

And have I brought home with me Victory, 

And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace, 

Her countenance twice lighted up with glory, 

As if I had charmed a goddess down from heaven ! 

But these will flee abhorrent from the throne 

Of usurpation ! Have you then thrown off shame, 

And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject, 

Throw off all fear ? I tell ye, the fair trophies 

Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe, 

Love's natural offerings to a rightful king, 

Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor, 

This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes 

Of gold plucked from the images of gods 

Upon a sacrilegious robber's back. coleridge. 



THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY. 

Blaze, with your serried columns ! 

I will not bend the knee ! 
The shackles ne'er again shall bind 

The arm which now is free. 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 153 

I 've mailed it with the thunder, 

When the tempests muttered low, 
And where it falls, ye well may dread 

The lightning of its blow ! 

I 've scared ye in the city, 

I 've scalped ye on the plain ; 
Go, count your chosen, where they fell 

Beneath my leaden rain ! 
I scorn your proffered treaty ! 

The pale-face I defy ! 
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, 

And Blood ! my battle-cry ! 

Some strike for hope of booty, 

Some to defend their all, — 
I battle for the joy I have 

To see the white man fall : 
I love, among the wounded, 

To hear his dying moan, 
And catch, while chanting at his side, 

The music of his groan. 

Ye 've trailed me through the forest, 

Ye 've tracked me o'er the stream , 
And struggling through the everglade, 

Your bristling bayonets gleam ; 
But I stand as should the warrior, 

With his rifle and his spear ; 
The scalp of vengeance still is red, 

And warns ye — Come not here 
I loathe ye in my bosom, 

I scorn ye with mine eye, 
And I '11 taunt ye with my latest breath, 

And fight ye till I die ! 
I ne'er will ask ye quarter, 

And I ne'er will be your slave , 
But I '11 swim the sea of slaughter, 

Till I sink beneath its wave ! g. w. patten. 



EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF MR. BURKE. 

Since I had the honor, I should say, the dishonor, of sitting 
in this house, I have been witness to many strange, many infa- 
mous transactions. What can be your intention in attacking all 



154 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

honor and virtue ? Do you mean to bring all men to a level 
with yourselves, and to extirpate all honor and independence ? 
Perhaps you imagine a vote will settle the whole controversy. 
Alas ! you are not aware that the manner in which your vote is 
procured is a secret to no man. Listen : — for if you are not 
totally callous, if your consciences are not seared, I will speak 
daggers to your souls, and wake you to all the hell of guilty 
recollection. I will follow you with whips and stings, through 
every maze of your unexampled turpitude, and plant thorns under 
the rose of ministerial approbation. You have flagrantly vio- 
lated justice and the law of the land, and opened a door for 
anarchy and confusion. After assuming an arbitrary dominion 
over law and justice, you issue orders, warrants, and proclama- 
tions, against every opponent, and send prisoners to your Bas- 
tile all those who have the courage and virtue to defend the 
freedom of their country. But it is in vain that you hope by 
fear and terror to extinguish the native British fire. The more 
sacrifices, the more martyrs you make, the more numerous the 
sons of liberty will become. They will multiply like the hydra, 
and hurl vengeance on your heads. Let others act as they will ; 
while I have a tongue, or an arm, they shall be free. And that 
I may not be a witness of these monstrous proceedings, I will 
leave the house ; nor do I doubt but every independent, every 
honest man, every friend to England, will follow me. These 
walls are unholy, baleful, deadly, while a prostitute majority 
holds the bolt of parliamentary power, and hurls its vengeance 
only upon the virtuous. To yourselves, therefore, I consign 
you. Enjoy your pandemonium ! 



THE INDIGNATION OF CONSTANCE. 

A wicked day, and not a holy-day ! — 
What hath this day deserved ? what hath it done : 
That it in golden letters should be set 
Among the high tides, in the calendar ? 
Nay, neither, turn this day out of the week ; 
This day of shame, oppression, perjury ; 
This day, all things begun come to ill end ; 
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change ! 
You have beguiled me with a counterfeit 
Resembling majesty ; which, being touched, and tried, 
Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn ; 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 155 

You came in arms, to spill mine enemies' blood, 

But now in arms, you strengthen it with yours ; 

The grappling vigor and rough frown of war, 

Is cold in amity and painted peace, 

And our oppression hath made up this league : 

Arm ! arm ! you heavens, against these perjured kings ! 

A widow cries : be husband to me, heavens ! 

Let not the hours of this ungodly day 

Wear out the day in peace ; but, ere sunset, 

Set armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings ! 

Hear me, 0, hear me ! 

0, Lymoges ! O, Austria ! thou dost shame 

That bloody spoil ; thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward ; 

Thou little valiant, great in villainy ! 

Thou ever strong, upon the stronger side ! 

Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight 

But when her humorous ladyship is by 

To teach thee safety ! Thou cold-blooded slave, 

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? 

Been sworn my soldier ? bidding me depend 

Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ? 

And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? 

Thou wear a lion's hide ! doff it for shame, 

And hang a calf 's-skin on those recreant limbs. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE PASSING OF THE RUBICON. 

A gentleman, Mr. President, speaking of Csesar's benevolent 
disposition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the 
civil war, observes, " How long did he pause upon the brink of 
the Rubicon ? " How came he to the brink of that river ! How 
dared he cross it ! Shall private men respect the boundaries of 
private property, and shall a manfpay no' respect* to the bound- 
aries of his country's rights ? How dared he cross that river ! 
Oh, but he paused upon the brink ! He should have perished 
upon the brink ere he had crossed it ! Why did he pause ? 
Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of 
committing an unlawful deed ? Why does the very murderer, 
his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking the 
measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal part ? Because 
of conscience ! 'T was that made Caesar pause upon the brink 



156 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

of the Rubicon. Compassion ! What compassion ? The com- 
passion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder as his 
weapon begins to cut ! Csesar paused upon the brink of the 
Rubicon ! What was the Rubicon ? The boundary of Caesar's 
province. From what did it separate his province ? From his 
country. Was that country a desert ? No ; it was cultivated 
and fertile, rich and populous ! Its sons were men of genius, 
spirit, and generosity ! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, 
and chaste ! Friendship was its inhabitant ! Love was its in- 
habitant ! Domestic affection was its inhabitant ! Liberty was 
its inhabitant ! All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon ! 
What was Caesar, that stood upon the bank of that stream ? A 
traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that country. 
No wonder that he paused — no wonder if, his imagination 
wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood instead of 
water, and heard groans instead of murmurs ! No wonder, if 
some gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot ! 
But, no ! — he cried, " The die is cast !" He plunged ! — he 
crossed ! — and Rome was free no more ! knowles. 



LAS CASAS DISSUADING FROM BATTLE. 

Is then the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet com- 
plete ? Battle! — Gracious Heaven ! against whom? Against 
a king, in whose mild bosom your atrocious injuries, even yet, 
have not excited hate ! but who, insulted or victorious, still sues 
for peace. Against a people, who never wronged the living- 
being their Creator formed ; a people, who, children of inno- 
cence ! received you as cherished guests, with eager hospitality 
and confiding kindness. Generously and freely did they share 
with you their comforts, their treasures, and their homes : you 
repaid them by fraud, oppression, and dishonor. These eyes 
have witnessed all I speak ; — as gods you were received — as 
fiends you have acted. 

Pizarro, hear me ! Hear me, chieftains ! — And thou, All- 
powerful ! whose thunder can shiver into sand the adamantine 
rock, — whose Hghtnings can pierce to the core of the riven and 
quaking earth, — ! let thy power give effect to thy servant's 
words, as thy Spirit gives courage to his will ! Do not, I im- 
plore you, chieftains, — countrymen, — do not, I implore you, 
renew the foul barbarities your insatiate avarice has inflicted on 
this wretched, unoffending race ! But hush, my sighs ! — fall 



DECLAMATION. ~ VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 157 

not, ye drops of useless sorrow ! — heart-breaking anguish, 
choke not my utterance. All I entreat is, send me once more to 
those you call your enemies. ! let me be the messenger of 
penitence from you ; I shall return with blessings and peace 
from them. Elvira, you weep ! — Alas ! does this dreadful 
crisis move no heart but thine ? Time flies — words are un- 
availing — the chieftains declare for instant battle. 

O God ! thou hast anointed me thy servant — not to curse, 
but to bless my countrymen : yet now my blessing on their 
force were blasphemy against thy goodness. No ! I curse 
your purpose, homicides ! I curse the bond of blood, by which 
you are united. May fell division, infamy, and rout, defeat 
your projects, and rebuke your hopes ! On you, and on your 
children, be the peril of the innocent blood which shall be shed 
this day ! I leave you, and forever ! No longer shall these 
aged eyes be seared by the horrors they have witnessed. In 
caves — in forests, will I hide myself ; with tigers and with 
savage beasts, will I commune ; and when at length we meet 
again, before the blessed tribunal of that Deity whose mild doc- 
trines and whose mercies ye have this day renounced, then shall 
you feel the agony and grief of soul which now tear the bosom 
of your weak accuser. sheridan. 



RIENZPS ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 

Friends, 
I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave. Not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame ; 
But base ignoble slaves — slaves to a horde 
Of petty despots, feudal tyrants ; lords, 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages ; 
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great 
In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cry out against them. But this very day, 
An honest man — my neighbor ; — there he stands ; — 
Was struck — struck like a dog — by one who wore 



158 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, 

He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 

And suffer such dishonor ? — men, and wash not 

The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : 

I have known deeper wrongs, — I that speak to ye. 

I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 

Of sweet and quiet joy. Oh, how I loved 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years : 

Brother at once and son ! He left my side ; 

A summer-bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile 

Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, 

The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 

His corse, his mangled corse ; and then I cried 

For vengeance Rouse ye, Romans ! rouse ye, slaves ! 

Have ye brave sons ? — look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? — look 
To see them live, torn from your arms — distained, 
Dishonored ; and if ye dare to call for justice, 
Be answered with the lash ! Yet this is Rome 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the earth ! And we are Romans ! 

MISS MITFORD. 



SPEECH OF SEMPRONIUS FOR WAR. 

My voice is still for war. 
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose — slavery or death ? 
No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And, at the head of our remaining troops, 
Attack the foe ; break through the thick array 
Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! 't is Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, 
Or share their fate ! The corpse of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 159 

Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
House up, for shame ! our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud, " To battle !' 
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us I 

ADDISON. 



CLESAR'S TRIUMPHS. 



To form a just estimate of Caesar's aims, Mr. President, look 
to his triumphs after the surrender of Utica — Utica, more 
honored in being the grave of Cato, than Rome in having been 
the cradle of Caesar. 

You will read, sir, that Caesar triumphed four times. First, 
for his victory over the Gauls ; secondly, over Egypt ; thirdly, 
over Pharnaces ; lastly, over Juba, the friend of Cato. His 
first, second, and third triumphs were, we are told, magnificent. 
Before him marched the princes and noble foreigners of the 
countries he had conquered : his soldiers, crowned with laurels, 
followed him ; and the whole city attended with acclamations. 
This was well ? — the conqueror should be honored. His fourth 
triumph approaches — as magnificent as the former ones. It 
does not want its royal captives, its soldiers crowned with lau- 
rels, or its flushed conqueror, to grace it ; nor is it less honored 
by the multitude of its spectators : — but they send up no shout 
of exultation ; they heave loud sighs ; their cheeks are frequently 
wiped ; their eyes are fixed upon one object, that engrosses all 
their senses — their thoughts — their affections — it is the statue 
of Cato ! — carried before the victor's chariot ! It represents 
him rending open his wound, and tearing out his bowels ; as he 
did in Utica, when Roman liberty was no more ! Now, ask if 
Caesar's aim was the welfare of his country ! — Now, doubt if 
he was a man governed by a selfish ambition ! Now, question 
whether he usurped, for the mere sake of usurping ! He is not 
content to triumph over the Gauls, the Egyptians, and Phar- 
naces ; he must triumph over his own countrymen ! He is not 
content to cause the statue of Scipio and Petrius to be carried 
before him, but he must be graced by that of Cato ! He is not 
content with the simple effigy of Cato ; he must exhibit that of 
his suicide ! He is not satisfied to insult the Romans with tri- 
umphing over the death of liberty ; they must gaze upon the 
representation of her expiring agonies, and mark the writhings 
of her last — fatal struggle ! knowles. 



160 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



REPLY TO THE REFLECTIONS OF MR. WALPOLE. 

Sir, the atrocious crime of being a young man, which the 
honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency charged 
upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny ; but content 
myself with wishing — that I may be one of those whose fol- 
lies cease with their youth ; and not of that number who are 
ignorant in spite of experience. 

Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I 
will not, sir, assume the province of determining ; but surely, 
age may become justly contemptible — if the opportunities which 
it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice ap- 
pears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch 
who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, 
continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added ob- 
stinacy to stupidity, is surely the object of either abhorrence or 
contempt ; and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure 
him from insult. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred — who, 
as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and be- 
comes more wicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes himself 
for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of 
his life in the ruin of his country. 

But youth, sir, is not my only crime. I have been accused 
of acting a theatrical part. 

A theatrical part may either imply — some peculiarities of 
gesture ; or, dissimulation of my real sentiments, and the adoption 
of the opinions and language of another man. 

In the first sense the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and 
deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am 
at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language : and 
though I may, perhaps, have some ambition, yet to please this 
gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very 
solicitously copy his diction, or his mien ; however matured by 
age, or modeled by experience. If any man shall, by charging 
me with theatrical behavior, imply that I utter any sentiments 
but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; 
nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he 
deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple trample 
upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench 
themselves, nor shall anything but age restrain my resentment ; 
age which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent 
and supercilious without punishment. But with regard, sir, to 
those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had acted 
a borrowed part I should have avoided their censure ; the heat 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 161 

that offended them was the ardor of conviction, and that zeal for 
the service of my country, which neither hope nor fear shall 
influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my 
liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I 
will exert my endeavors, at whatever hazard, to repel the ag- 
gressor, and drag the thief to justice — whoever may protect 
them in their villainy, and whoever may partake of their plunder. 

PITT. 



GKATTAN'S REPLY TO MR. CORRY. 

Has the gentleman done ? Has he completely done ? He 
was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. 
There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of 
the privileges of the house. But I did not call him to order — 
why ? because the limited talents of some men render it impos- 
sible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But 
before I sit down, I shall show him how to be severe and parlia- 
mentary at the same time. 

On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in 
treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from 
that honorable member ; but there are times, when the insignifi- 
cance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. 
I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored under 
when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of 
our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say 
which would injure me. The public would not believe the 
charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made 
by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do 
before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it, when not made 
by an honest man. 

The right honorable gentleman has called me " an unim- 
peached traitor. " I ask why not "traitor," unqualified by an 
epithet ? I will tell him, it was because he durst not. It was 
the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not 
courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it 
would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy counselor. I will 
not call him fool, because he happens to be chancelor of the 
exchequer. But I say, he is one who has abused the privilege 
of parliament, and freedom of debate, by uttering language, 
which, if spoken out of the house, I should answer only with a 
blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his character, 
how contemptible his speech ; whether a privy counselor or a 
parasite, my answer would be a blow. 
14 



162 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. 
The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the hon- 
orable gentleman rely on the report of the house of lords for 
the foundation of his assertion ? If he does, I can prove to the 
committee, there was a physical impossibility of that report being- 
true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether 
he be a political coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into 
power by a false glare of courage or not. 



CATILINE, ON HEARING HIS SENTENCE OF BANISHMENT. 

Banished from Rome ! What 's banished, but set free 
From daily contact of the things I loathe ? 
" Tried and convicted traitor I" — Who says this ? 
Who '11 prove it, at his peril, on my head ? 
Banished ? — I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain ! 
I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; 
But now my sword 's my own. Smile on, my lords ; 
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, 
To leave you in your lazy dignities. 
But here I stand and scoff you : — here I fling 
Hatred and full defiance in your face. 
Your consul 's merciful. For this all thanks. 
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline. 
" Traitor !" I go — but I return. This trial ! — 
Here I devote your senate ! I 've had wrongs, 
To stir a fever in the blood of age, 
Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel. 
This day 's the birth of sorrows ! — This hour's work 
Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords ; 
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, 
Shapes hot from Tartarus ! — all shames and crimes ; 
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; 
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, 
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
Till anarchy comes down on you like night, 
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. croly. 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 163 



FROM CICERO'S ORATION AGAINST VERRES. 

I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against this 
charge ? Will you pretend to deny it ? Will you pretend that 
anything false, that even anything exaggerated is alleged against 
you ? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same out- 
rage against the privileges of Roman citizens, should we not 
think we had sufficient reason for declaring immediate war 
against them ? What punishment, then, ought to be inflicted 
on a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater 
distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to 
the infamous death of crucifixion that unfortunate and innocent 
citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted 
his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appeal- 
ing to the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, who 
had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he had 
just made his escape ? The unhappy man, arrested as he was 
going to embark for his native country, is brought before the 
wicked praetor. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance 
distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage 
to be stripped, and rods to be brought ; accusing him, but with- 
out the least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of hav- 
ing come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy 
man cried out, " I am a Roman citizen, I have served under 
Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my 
innocence." The bloodthirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in 
his own defense, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. 
Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled 
with scourging ; whilst the only words he uttered amidst his 
cruel sufferings were, " I am a Roman citizen ! " With these 
he hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy. But of 
so little service was this privilege to him, that while he was 
asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution — 
for his execution upon the cross ! 

liberty ! sound once delightful to every Roman ear ! 
sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! once sacred, now tram- 
pled upon ! But what then ! — is it come to this ? Shall an 
inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his power of the 
Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, 
scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last 
put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? Shall 
neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears 
of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman common- 
wealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the 



164 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence 
of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty and sets mankind at 
defiance ? 



FROM CICERO'S FIRST ORATION AGAINST CATILINE. 

How far wilt thou, Catiline ! abuse our patience ? How 
long shall thy madness outbrave our justice ? To what extrem- 
ities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled insolence of guilt ! 
Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that watch the palatium, 
the guards of the city, the consternation of the citizens ; all the 
wise and worthy clustering into consultation ; this impregnable 
situation of the seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks of 
the fathers of Home ? Canst thou, I say, behold all this, and 
yet remain undaunted and unabashed ? Art thou sensible that 
thy measures are detected ? 

Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly informed, 
comprehend the full extent of thy guilt ? Point me out the 
senator ignorant of thy practices, during the last and the pre- 
ceding night ; of the place where you met, the company you 
summoned, and the crime you concerted. The senate is con- 
scious, the consul is witness to this : yet mean and degenerate ! 
the traitor lives ! Lives ! did I say ? He mixes with the sen- 
ate ; he shares in our counsels ; with a steady eye he surveys 
us ; he anticipates his guilt ; he enjoys his murderous thoughts, 
and coolly marks us out for bloodshed. Yet we, boldly passive 
in our country's cause, think we act like Romans if we can 
escape his frantic rage. 

Long since, Catiline ! ought the consul to have doomed 
thy fife a forfeit to thy country ; and to have directed upon thy 
own head the mischief thou hast long been meditating for ours. 
Could the noble Scipio, when sovereign pontiff, as a private 
Roman kill Tiberius Gracchus for a slight encroachment upon 
the rights of his country ; and shall we, her consuls, with per- 
severing patience endure Catiline, whose ambition is to desolate 
a devoted world with fire and sword ? 

There was — there was a time, when such was the spirit of 
Rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous sons more 
sternly crushed the Roman traitor, than the most inveterate 
enemy. Strong and weighty, O Catiline ! is the decree of the 
senate we can now produce against you ; neither wisdom is 
wanting in this state, nor authority in this assembly ; but we, 
the consuls, we are defective in our duty. 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 165 



BOLINGBROKE AGAINST NORFOLK. 

First, (heaven be the record of my speech !) 
In the devotion of a subject's love, 
Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 
And free from other misbegotten hate, 
Come I appellant to this princely presence. — 
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, 
And mark my greeting well ; for what I speak 
My body shall make good upon this earth, 
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. 
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant ; 
Too good to be so, and too bad to live ; 
Since, the more fair and crystal is the sky, 
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. 
Once more, the more to aggravate the note, 
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat ; 
And wish, (so please my sovereign,) ere I move, 
What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove. 

Pale, trembling coward, there I throw my gage, 
Disclaiming here the kindred of a king ; 
And lay aside my high blood's royalty, 
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. 
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength 
As to take up mine honor's pawn, then stoop ; 
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else, 
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, 
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. 

Look, what I speak my life shall prove it true ; — 
The Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles, 
In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers ; 
The which he hath detained for lewd employments, 
Like a false traitor and injurious villain. 
Besides, I say, and will in battle prove, — 
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge 
That ever was survey 'd by English eye, — 
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years 
Complotted and contrived in this land, 
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. 
Further I say, — and further will maintain 
Upon his bad life, to make all this good, — 
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death ; 
Suggest his soon believing adversaries ; 
And, consequently like a traitor coward, 



166 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood : 

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, 

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, 

To me, for justice, and rough chastisement ; 

And, by the glorious worth of my descent, 

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. shakspeare. 



MEETING OF DEATH AND SATAN. 

" Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape ! 
That darest, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ? Through them I mean to pass, 
That be assured, without leave asked of thee : 
Retire or taste thy folly ; and learn by proof, 
Hell -born ! not to contend with spirits of heaven ! " 

To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied — 
" Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he, 
Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then 
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons 
Conjured against the Highest ; for which both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 
And reckon' st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
Hell-doomed ! and breath'st defiance here and scorn, 
Where I reign king, and, to inflame thee more, 
Thy king and lord ! Back to thy punishment, 
False fugitive ! and to thy speed add wings, 
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
Thy fingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before." 

So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, 
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful and deformed : on the other side, 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood 
Unterrified, and like a comet burned, 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head 
Leveled his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
No second stroke intend ; and such a frown 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 167 

Each cast at the other, as when two black clouds 

With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on 

Over the Caspian, then stand front to front 

Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 

To join their dark encounter in mid air. milton. 



THE QUARREL OF ACHILLES AND ATRIDES. 

Insatiate king ! (Achilles thus replies,) 
Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize ! 
Would' st thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield, 
The due reward of many a well fought field ? 
The spoils of cities razed, and warriors slain, 
We share with justice, as with toil we gain : 
But to resume whate'er thy avarice craves 
(That trick of tyrants) may be borne by slaves ; 
Yet if our chief for plunder only fight, 
The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite, 
Whene'er by Jove's decree our conquering powers 
Shall humble in the dust her lofty towers. 

Then thus the king : Shall I my prize resign 
With tame content and thou possessed of thine ? 
Great as thou art and like a god in fight, 
Think not to rob me of a soldier's right. 
At thy demand shall I restore the maid ? 
First let the just equivalent be paid ; 
.Such as a king might ask ; and let it be 
A treasure worthy her, and worthy me. 
Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim 
This hand shall seize some other captive dame ; 
The mighty Ajax shall his prize resign, 
Ulysses' spoils, or e'en thy own be mine. 
The man who suffers loudly may complain, 
And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain. 

At this Pelides, frowning stern, replied : 
O tyrant, arm'd with insolence and pride ! 
Inglorious slave to interest ever joined 
With fraud, unworthy of a royal mind ! 
What generous Greek, obedient to thy word, 
Shall form an ambush, or shall lift the sword ? 
What cause have I to war at thy decree ? 
The distant Trojans never injured me ; 



168 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To Phthia's realms no hostile troops they led ; 

Safe in her vales my warlike coursers fed ; 

Far hence removed, the hoarse resounding main 

And walls of rocks secure my native reign ; 

Whose fruitful and luxuriant harvests grace, 

Rich in her fruits and in her martial race. pope. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



Fly, mighty warrior ! fly, 
Thy aid we need not and thy threats defy — 
Want not such chiefs in such a cause to fight, 
And Jove himself shall guard a monarch's right. 
Of all the kings (the gods' distinguished care) 
To power superior none such hatred bear ; 
Strife and debate thy restless soul employ, 
And wars and horrors are thy savage joy. 
If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestow'd ; 
For know, vain man ! thy valor is from God. 
Haste, launch thy vessels, fly with speed away, 
Rule thy own realms with arbitrary sway : 
I heed thee not, but prize at equal rate 
Thy short-lived friendship, and thy groundless hate. 
Go, threat thy earth-bom Myrmidons ; but here 
'T is mine to threaten, prince, and thine to fear. 
Know, if the god the beauteous dame demand, 
My barque shall waft her to her native land : 
But then prepare imperious prince ! prepare, 
Fierce as thou art, to yield thy captive fair ; 
E'en in thy tent, I '11 seize the blooming prize, 
Thy loved Brisei's with the radiant eyes. 
Hence shalt thou prove my might, and curse the hour 
Thou stood' st a rival of imperial power ; 
And hence to all our host it shall be known, 
The kings are subject to the gods alone. 
Achilles heard with grief and rage oppressed, 
His heart swelled high, and labored in his breast. 
Nor yet the rage his boiling breast forsook, 
Which thus redoubling on Atrides broke : 

O monster ! mix'd of insolence and fear, 
Thou dog in forehead but in heart a deer ! 
When wert thou known in ambushed fights to dare 
Or nobly face the horrid front of war ? 



DECLAMATION. VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 169 

'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try, 

Thine to look on, and bid the valiant die. 

So much 't is safer through the camp to go 

And rob a subject than despoil a foe. 

Scourge of thy people, violent and base ! 

Sent in Jove's anger on a slavish race, 

Who, lost to sense of generous freedom past, 

Are tamed to wrongs, or this had been thy last. 

Now by this sacred sceptre let me swear, 

Which never more shall leaves or blossoms bear, 

Which severed from the trunk, (as I from thee,) 

On the bare mountains left its parent tree ; 

This sceptre, formed by tempered steel to prove 

An ensign of the delegates of Jove ; 

By this I swear when bleeding Greece again 

Shall call Achilles, she shall call in vain ; 

When flushed with slaughter, Hector comes to spread 

The purple shore with mountains of the dead, 

Then shalt thou mourn the affront thy madness gave, 

Forced to deplore, but impotent to save : 

Then rage in bitterness of soul to know 

This act has made the bravest Greek thy foe, 

He spoke ; and furious hurled against the ground 
His sceptre starred with golden studs around. 
Then sternly silent sat. With like disdain 
The raging king returned his frowns again. pope. 



GLOSTER'S INDIGNATION. 

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, 
To you duke Humphrey must unload his grief, 
Your grief, the common grief of all the land. 
What ! did my brother Henry spend his youth, 
His valor, coin, and people, in the wars ? 
Did he so often lodge in open field, 
In winter's cold, and summer's parching heat, 
To conquer France, his true inheritance ? 
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, 
To keep by policy what Henry got ? 
Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, 
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, 
Received deep scars in France and Normandy ? 
Or hath my uncle Beaufort, and myself, 



170 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

With all the learned council of the realm, 

Studied so long, sat in the council-house, 

Early and late, debating to and fro 

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe ? 

And hath his highness in his infancy 

Been crowned in Paris, in despite of foes ? 

And shall these labors, and these honors, die ? 

Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance, 

Your deeds of war, and all our counsel, die ? 

peers of England, shameful is this league ! 
Fatal this marriage, canceling your fame : 
Blotting your names from books of memory, 
Razing the characters of your renown ; 
Defacing monuments of conquered France ; 
Undoing all, as all had never been ! 

For Suffolk's duke — may he be suffocated ! — 
That dims the honor of this warlike isle ! 
France should have torn and rent my very heart 
Before I would have yielded to this league. 

1 never read but England's kings have had 
Large sums of gold, and dowries, with their wives : 
And our king Henry gives away his own, 

To match with her that brings no vantages. 
A proper jest, and never heard before, 
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth, 
For costs and charges in transporting her ! 
She should have staid in France, and starved, 
My lord of Winchester, I know your mind ; 
Tis not my speeches that you do mislike, 
But 'tis my presence that doth trouble you. 
Rancor will out ; proud prelate, in thy face, 
I see thy fury ; if I longer stay, 
We shall begin our ancient bickerings. — 
Lordlings, farewell ; and say, when I am gone, 
I prophesied — France will be lost ere long. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



NORFOLK AGAINST BOLINGBROKE. 

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal, 
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war, 
The bitter clamor of two eager tongues, 
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain : 



DECLAMATION. — VEHEMENT INVECTIVE. 171 

The blood is hot that must be cooled for this, 

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast, 

As to be hushed, and nought at all to say. 

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me, 

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ; 

Which else would post, until it had returned 

These terms of treason doubled down his throat. 

Setting aside his high blood's royalty, 

And let him be no kinsman to my leige, 

I do defy him, and I spit at him ; 

Call him — a slanderous coward and a villain : 

Which to maintain, I would allow him odds ; 

And meet him, were I tied to run a-foot 

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 

Or any other ground inhabitable, 

Wherever Englishman durst set his foot. 

Meantime, let this defend my loyalty, — 

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. 

Oh ! let my sovereign turn away his face, 
And bid his ears a little while be deaf, 
Till I have told this slander of his blood, 
How God and good men hate so foul a liar. 

Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest ! 
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais, 
Disbursed I duly to his highness' soldiers ; 
The other part reserved I by consent ; 
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt, 
Upon remainder of a dear account, 
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen ; 
Now swallow down that lie. — For Gloster's death — 
I slew him not ; but to my own disgrace, 
Neglected my sworn duty in that case. — 
For you, my noble lord of Lancaster, 
The honorable father to my foe, 
Once did I lay in ambush for your life, 
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul ; 
But, ere I last received the sacrament, 
I did confess it ; and exactly begged 
Your grace's pardon, and I hope I had it. 
This is my fault. As for the rest appealed, 
It issues from the rancor of a villain, 
A recreant and most degenerate traitor : 
Which in myself I boldly will defend ; 
And interchangeably hurl down my gage 



172 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Upon this overweening traitor's foot, 

To prove myself a loyal gentleman 

Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom. 

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray 

Your highness to assign our trial day. shakspeare. 



MARGARET'S CURSE. 



Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out 
In sharing that which you have pilfer'd from me ; 
Which of you trembles not, that looks on me ? 
If not, that I, being queen, you bow like subjects ; 
Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels ? 

Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away ! 
A husband, and a son, thou owest to me, — 
And thou, a kingdom ; — all of you, allegiance ; 
This sorrow that I have, by right is yours ; 
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. 
Edward, thy son, that now is prince of Wales, 
For Edward, my son, that was prince of Wales, 
Die in his youth, by like untimely violence ! 
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, 
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self ! 
Long may'st thou live to wail thy children's loss ; 
And see another, as I see thee now, 
Decked in thy rights as thou art stalled in mine ! 
Long die thy happy days before thy death ; 
And after many lengthened hours of grief, 
Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen. 

If heaven have any grievous plague in store, 
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, 
Oh, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, 
And then hurl down their indignation. 
On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace. 
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul ! 
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest, 
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ; 
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, 
Unless it be while some tormenting dream 
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils ! 
Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog ! 
Thou that was sealed in thy nativity, 
The slave of nature and the son of hell ! shakspeare. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 173 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES 



SONG, FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 
Dream of battle-fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing ; 
Fairy strains of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here, 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, 

At the day-break, from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the. sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
Guard's nor warder's challenge here, 
Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing, 
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, 
Dream not with the rising sun, 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream, in yonder glen, 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For at dawning to assail ye, 
Here no bugles sound reveille. 



174 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



THE DEATH-FIRE. 



Beneath the ever dense and leafy gloom 
Of the hushed wilderness, a lurid flame 
Crept, like a serpent, gorged with kindling blood, 
Around the knotted trunk of an old forest oak ; 
Then upward and abroad it fiercely spread, 
Through the dusk pine-tops and the clinging vines, 
Till the dark forest crimsoned with the glare. 
Strong winds swept through the hot and crackling boughs, 
While scintillating sparks — a fiery rain — 
Fell from the arrowy flames that darted through 
The black and smoky air. 
In double ranks around that flaming tree, 
Sat fierce-browed warriors, like a crowd of fiends 
Sent forth to hold their orgies on the earth. 
Their shafted arrows, and the sinewy bow, 
The tomahawk, and club, and keen-edged knife, 
Flashed back the fire, and there all hotly gleamed 
In the tall grass, that coiled all crisply back, 
Grew stiff and died on the scorched earth. 
The sparkling river, flowing with sweet chime, 
So cool and tranquil in its verdant banks, 
In gentle contrast with the flaming trees, 
And the red demons crouching underneath, 
Mocked the devoted victims. 

One was a girl, so gently fair, 

She seemed a being of upper air, 

Lured by the sound of the water's swell, 

To the haunt of demons dark and fell ! 

Shackled by many a galling thong, 

But in Christian courage firm and strong, 

Stood a brave man, with his eye on fire, 

As he bent its glance on the funeral pyre ; — 

Yet his bosom heaved and his heart beat quick ; 

His labored breath came fast and thick ; 

His cheek grew pale, and drops of pain 

Sprang to his brow like beaded rain, 

As he felt the clasp of his pallid bride, 

Where she clung in fear to his pinioned side. 

A savage shout — a fierce, deep yell — 

Rings through the forest cove and dell ; 

The wood is alive on either hand 

With the rushing feet of that murderous band. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 175. 

One start from the earth — one feeble cry, 
Like the moan of a fawn when the hounds are nigh — 
And she sinks to the ground with a shuddering thrill, 
And lies at his feet all cold and still. 
With the mighty strength of his stern despair, 
Like a lion roused in his guarded lair, 
The youth has rended his bonds apart — 
The bride is snatched to his throbbing heart ! 
With a bound he clears the savage crew, 
And plunges on toward the bark canoe. 
He nears the bank — a fiendish scream 
From the baffled foes rings o'er the stream : 
He springs to the barque ; — away, away ! — 
It is lost from sight in the flashing spray ! 

ANN S. STEPHENS. 



A FEVER DREAM. 



A fever scorched my body, fired my brain ! 
Like lava, in Vesuvius, boiled my blood 
Within the glowing caverns of my heart. 
I raged with thirst, and begged a cold clear draught 
Of fountain water. *T was with tears denied. 
I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept ; 
But rested not — harassed with horrid dreams 
Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains — 
Mountains disgorging flames — forests on fire — 
Steam, sunshine, smoke, and boiling lakes — 
Hills of hot sand, and glowing stones that seemed 
Embers and ashes of a burnt up world ! 
Thirst raged within me. I sought the deepest vale, 
And called on all the rocks and caves for water ; — 
I climbed a mountain, and from cliff to cliff 
Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water : — 
I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots, 
Still crying, Water ! water ! — while the cliffs and caves, 
In horrid mockery, re-echoed " Water ! " 
The baked plain gaped for moisture, 
And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed 
The breath of furnace — fierce, volcanic fire, 
Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands 
To clouds. Amid the forests we espied 



176 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

A faint and bleating herd. Sudden, a shrill 

And horrid shout arose of — " Blood ! blood ! blood ! " 

We fell upon them with the tiger's thirst, 

And drank up all the blood that was not human ! 

We were dyed in blood ! Despair returned ; 

The cry of blood was hushed, and dumb confusion reigned. 

Even then, when hope was dead ! — past hope — 

I heard a laugh ! and saw a wretched man 

Rip his own veins, and, bleeding, drink 

With eager joy. The example seized on all : — 

Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins, 

Fiercely in search of blood ! And some there were, 

Who, having emptied their own veins, did seize 

Upon their neighbor's arms, and slew them for their blood ! — 

" Rend, ye lightnings ! the sealed firmament, 
And flood a burning world. Rain ! rain ! pour ! pour ! 
Open ye windows of high heaven ! and pour 
The mighty deluge. Let us drown and drink 
Luxurious death ! Ye earthquakes, split the globe, 
The solid rock-ribbed globe ! — and lay all bare 
Its subterranean rivers and fresh seas ! " 

Thus raged the multitude. And many fell 
In fierce convulsion ; — many slew themselves. 
And now, I saw the city all in flames — 
The forest burning — and the very earth on fire ! 
I saw the mountains open with a roar 
Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders, 
And seas of lava rolling headlong down, 
Through crackling forests fierce, and hot as hell, 
Down to the plain ; — I turned to fly — and waked ! 

JOHN M. HARNEY. 



BERNARDINE DQ BORN. 

King Henry sat upon his throne, 

And, full of wrath and scorn, 
His eye a recreant knight surveyed — 

Sir Bernardine du Born. 
And he that haughty glance returned, 

Like lion in his lair, 
And loftily his unchanged brow 

Gleamed through his crisped hair. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 177 

" Thou art a traitor to the realm ! 

Lord of a lawless band ! 
The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, 

The troubler of our land ! 
Thy castles and thy rebel towers 

Are forfeit to the crown ; 
And thou beneath the Norman axe 

Shall end thy base renown ! 

" Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom, — 

Thou with strange madness fired ? 
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast ? " 

Plantagenet inquired. 
Sir Bernard turned him toward the king, 

And blenched not in his pride ; 
" My reason failed, most gracious liege, 

The year Prince Henry died." 

Quick, at that name, a cloud of woe 

Passed o'er the monarch's brow ; 
Touched was that bleeding chord of love, 

To which the mightiest bow. 
And backward swept the tide of years ; 

Again his first-born moved — 
The fair, the graceful, the sublime, 

The erring, yet beloved. 

And ever, cherished by his side, 

One chosen friend was near, 
To share in boyhood's ardent sport, 

Or youth's untamed career ; 
With him the merry chase he sought, 

Beneath the dewy morn, 
With him in knightly tourney rode 

This Bernardine du Born. 

Then in the mourning father's soul 

Each trace of ire grew dim, 
And what his buried idol loved 

Seemed cleansed of guilt to him ; — 
And faintly through his tears he spoke, 

" God send his grace to thee ! 
And, for the dear sake of the dead, 

Go forth, unscathed and free. " bigourney. 



178 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



THE KAISER. 

The Kaiser's hand from all his foes 
Had won him glory and repose ; 
Richly through his rejoicing land 
Were felt the blessings of his hand ; 
And when at eve he sought his rest, 
A myriad hearts his slumbers blessed. 

In midnight's hush a tempest broke ; — 
Throughout his realm its myriads woke ; 
And by the lightning's rapid flash, 
And 'mid the thunder's bellowing crash, 
In faith to heaven their prayers they spake, 
For Christ's and for the Kaiser's sake. 

But with a start, and with a pang, 
Up from his couch the Kaiser sprang ; 
What ! feareth he who never feared 
When bloody deaths through hosts careered ? 
What ! can the tempest's passing sound 
That heart of battles thus confound ? 

No ! no ! But in its deepest deep 
It wakes a cry no more to sleep ; 
And there ! and there ! in wrath begin 
The pangs — the power of secret sin. 
A blow is dealt, — a strife is stirred, — 
Without, the storm may pass unheard ! 

And, therefore, from his palace door 
He passed into the loud uproar ; 
In wildest wind, and blackest night, 
He passed away in sudden flight : 
'Mid lightning, rain, and thunder's roll, 
He went, — a fire within his soul. 

The Kaiser went in storm and night, 

But ne'er returned in peace and light ; 

Astonished thousands asked his lot, 

Love sought, and sought, but found him not ; 

But conscience did ivhat conscience would, 

And sealed its errand — blood for blood ! 

w. HO WITT. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 179 



THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S SONG. 

Hark ! hear ye the sounds that the winds on their pinions 

Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea, 
With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions ? 

'T is Columbia calls on her sons to be free ! 

Behold on yon summits, where heaven has throned her, 
How she starts from her proud inaccessible seat ; 

With nature's impregnable ramparts around her, 
And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet ! 

In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken, 
While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song 

From the rock to the valley reecho — "Awaken, 
Awaken, ye hearts that have slumbered too long ! " 

Yes, despots ! too long did your tyranny hold us, 
In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known ; 

Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us 
Were forged by the fears of its captives alone. 

That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing, 
Despised as detested — pause well ere ye dare 

To cope with a people whose spirit and feeling 

Are roused by remembrance and steeled by despair. 

Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw [them ; 

The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confines 
But presume not again to give freemen a law, 

Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them. 

To hearts that the spirit of liberty flushes, 

Kesistance is idle, — and numbers a dream ; — 

They burst from control, as the mountain-stream rushes 
From its fetters of ice, in the warmth of the beam. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 

I saw him on the battle-eve, 

When, like a king, he bore him — 
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, 
And prouder chiefs before him : 



180 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds — 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 

No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; 
He looked around him, and his eye 
Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 

He looked on ocean, — its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet ; 
On earth : — and saw, from east to west, 

His bannered millions meet : 
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, 
Shook with the war-cry of that host, 

The thunder of their feet ! 
He heard the imperial echoes ring, — 
He heard, — and felt himself a king. 

I saw him next alone : — nor camp, 

Nor chief, his steps attended ; 
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 

With war-cries proudly blended. 
He stood alone, whom fortune high 
So lately seemed to deify ; 

He, who with heaven contended, 
Fled like a fugitive and slave ! 
Behind — the foe ; — before — the wave : 

He stood ; — fleet, army, treasure, gone, — 

Alone, and in despair ! 
But wave and wind swept ruthless on, 

For they were monarchs there ; 
And Xerxes, in a single barque, 
Where late his thousand ships were dark, 

Must all their fury dare : — 
What a revenge — a trophy, this — 
For thee, immortal Salamis ! miss jewsbury. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 

The village smithy stands : 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 



DEAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 181 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat ; 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week out, week in, from morn till night, 

You can hear his bellows blow ; 
You hear him swing his heavy sledge 

With measured beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the old kirk chimes 

When the evening sun is low. 

And children, coming home from school, 

Look in at the open door : 
They love to see a flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks, that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes, on Sunday, to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard rough hand he wipes 

A tear from out his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes : 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a night's repose. 



182 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus, at the naming forge of Life, 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped, 

Each burning deed and thought. longfellow. 



THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM. 

There was a man, 
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed 
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low 
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, 
But generous, and brave, and kind. 
He had a son : it was a rosy boy, 
A little faithful copy of his sire 
In face and gesture. From infancy the child 
Had been his father's solace and his care. 

With earliest morn, 
Of that first day of darkness and amaze, 
He came. The iron door was closed, — for them 
Never to open more ! The day, the night, 
Dragged slowly by ; nor did they know the fate 
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard 
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath, 
And felt its giddy rocking ; and the air 
Grew hot at length, and thick ; but in his straw 
The boy was sleeping : and the father hoped 
The earthquake might pass by ; nor would he wake 
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell 
The dangers of their state. On his low couch 
The fettered soldier sunk, and with deep awe 
Listened the fearful sounds : — with upturned eye 
To the great gods he breathed a prayer ; — then strove 
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile 
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep : — 
His body burned with feverish heat ; — his chains 
Clanked loud, although he moved not : deep in earth 
Groaned unimaginable thunders : — sounds, 
Fearful and ominous, arose and died, 
Like the sad moanings of November's wind 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 183 

In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled 
His blood that burned before ; cold clammy sweats 
Came o'er him : — then anon a fiery thrill 
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk, 
And shivered as in tear : — now upright leaped, 
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, 
And longed to cope with death. 

He slept at last, 
A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well — had he slept 
Never to waken more ! His hours are few, 
But terrible his agony. atherstone. 



THE PRISONER IN HERCULANEUM. 

Loudly the father called upon his child : — 
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously 
He searched their couch of straw : — with headlong haste 
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent, 
Groped darkling on the earth ; — no child was there. 
Again he called : — again, at furthest stretch 
Of his accursed fetters, till the blood 
Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes 
Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far, 
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch 
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil ! 
Yet still renewed : — still round and round he goes, 
And strains, and snatches, — and with dreadful cries 
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now : 
He plants against the wall his feet ; — his chain 
Grasps ; — tugs with giant strength to force away 
The deep-driven staple : — yells and shrieks with rage, 
And, like a desert lion in the snare 
Raging to break his toils, to and fro bounds. 
But see ! the ground is opening : — a blue light 
Mounts, gently waving, — noiseless : — thin and cold 
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame ; 
But by its lustre, on the earth outstretched, 
Behold the lifeless child ! — his dress is singed, 
And o'er his face serene a darkened line 
Points out the lightning's track. 



184 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Silent and pale 
The father stands : — no tear is in his eye : — 
The thunders bellow, but he hears them not : — 
The ground lifts like a sea, — he knows it not : — 
The strong walls grind and gape : — the vaulted roof 
Takes shapes like bubbles tossing in the wind : — 
See ! he looks up and smiles ; — for death to him 
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace 
Be given, 't were still a sweeter thing to die. 

It will be given. Look ! how the rolling ground, 
At every swell, nearer and still more near 
Moves toward the father's outstretched arm his boy : — 
Once he has touched his garment ; — how his eye, 
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears ! 
Ha ! see ! he has him now ! — he clasps him round, 
Kisses his face : — puts back the curling locks, 
That shaded his fine brow : — looks in his eyes, 
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands, 
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont 
To lie when sleeping, and resigned awaits 
Undreaded death. 

And death came soon, and swift, 
And pangless. 

The huge pile sunk down at once 
Into the opening earth. Walls, arches, roof, 
And deep foundation-stones, all mingling fell ! atherstone. 



THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, 
Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay — 
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. 

" They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, 
That I shall mount my noble steed, and lead my band no more ; 
They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born, that I — ha ! ha ! — must die. 

" And what is death 1 I 've dared him oft before the paynim spear ; 
Think ye he 's entered at my gate — has come to seek me here ] 
I 've met him, faced him, scorned him, T/nen the fight was raging 

hot ; — 
I'll try his might — I '11 brave his power ; defy, and fear him not. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 185 

"Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin ; 
Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every vassal in. 
Up with my banner on the wall, — the banquet-board prepare, — 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there ! " 

An hundred hands were busy then : the banquet forth was spread, 
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall. [hall. 
Lights gleam on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic 



Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured 
On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the 

board ; 
While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. 

" Fill every beaker up, my men, — pour forth the cheering wine ! 
There 's life and strength in every drop — thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true ? — mine eyes are waxing dim : 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim ! 

" Ye 're there ; but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword, 
And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board. 
I hear it faintly. Louder yet ! — What clogs my heavy breath 1 
Up all, and shout for Rudiger, * Defiance unto death ! ' " 

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry, 
That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high. 
" Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him 1 — Slaves, traitors, have ye flown 1 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone 1 

" But I defy him : — let him come ! " Down rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up ; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his 

head, 
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat dead. 

ALBERT G. GREENE. 



BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO. 

With some good ten of his chosen men, 

Bernardo hath appeared, 
Before them all in the palace hall,# 

The lying king to beard ; 
With cap in hand and eye on ground, 

He came in reverend guise, 
But ever and anon he frowned, 

And flame broke from his eyes. 
16 



186 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" A curse upon thee," cries the king, 

" Who com'st unbid to me ! 
But what from traitor's blood should spring, 

Save traitor like to thee ? 
His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart, — 

Perchance our champion brave 
May think it were a pious part 

To share Don Sancho's grave." 

" Whoever told this tale, 

The king hath rashness to repeat," 
Cries Bernard, — " here my gage I fling 

Before the liar's feet. 
No treason was in Sancho's blood, — 

No stain in mine doth lie : 
Below the throne, what knight will own 

The coward calumny ? 

" Ye swore upon your kingly faith, 

To set Don Sancho free ; 
But, curse upon your paltering breath ! 

The light he ne'er did see : 
He died in dungeon cold and dim, 

By Alphonso's base decree ; 
And visage blind, and mangled limb, 

Were all they gave to me. 

" The king that swerveth from his word 

Hath stained his purple black : 
No Spanish lord shall draw his sword 

Behind a liar's back. 
But noble vengeance shall be mine ; 

And open hate I '11 show ; — 
The king hath injured Carpio's line, 

And Bernard is his foe ! " 

" Seize — seize him ! " loud the king doth scream 

" There are a thousand here ; 
Let his fo*l blood this instant stream ; — 

What ! caitiffs, do you fear ? 
Seize — seize the traitor ! " But not one 

To move a finger dareth : 
Bernardo standeth by the throne, 

And calm his sword he bareth. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES, 187 

He drew the falchion from its sheath, 

And held it up on high ; 
And all the hall was still as death : — 

Cries Bernard, " Here am I ; 
And here 's the sword that owns no lord, 

Excepting heaven and me : 
Fain would I know who dares its point, — 

King, conde, or grandee." 

Then to his mouth his horn he drew, — 

It hung below his cloak ; 
His ten true men the signal knew, 

And through the ring they broke. 
With helm on head, and blade in hand, 

The knights the circle break, 
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, 

And the false king to quake. 

" Ha ! Bernard ! " quoth Alphonso, 

" What means this warlike guise ? 
Ye know full well I jested ; — 

Ye know your worth I prize ! " 
But Bernard turned upon his heel, 

And, smiling, passed away. 
Long rued Alphonso and Castile 

The jesting of that day ! lockhart. 



THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. 

Wide o'er Bannock's heathy wold 
Scotland's deathral banners roll'd, 
And spread their wings of sprinkled gold 

To the purpling east. 
Freedom beamed in every eye ; 
Devotion breathed in every sigh ; 
Freedom heaved their souls on high, 

And steeled each hero's breast. 

Charging then the courser's sprang, 
Sword and helmet clashing rang, 
Steel-clad warrior's mixing clang 
Echoed round the field. 



188 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Deathful see their eyeballs glare ! 
See the nerves of battle bare ! 
Arrowy tempests cloud the air, 

And glance from every shield. 

Hark ! the bowman's quivering strings ! 
Death on gray -goose pinions springs ! 
Deep they dip their dappled wings 

Drunk in heroes' gore. 
Lo ! Edward, springing on the rear, 
Plies his Caledonian spear : 
Ruin marks his dread career, 

And sweeps them from the shore. 

See how red the streamlets flow ! 
See the reeling, yielding foe, 
How they melt at every blow ! 

Yet we shall be free ! 
Darker yet the strife appears ; 
Forest dread of flaming spears ! 
Hark ! a shout the welkin tears ! 

Bruce has victory ! 



HENRY V, AT THE SEIGE OF HARFLEUR. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger : 
Stiffen the sinews, — summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage ; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry through the portage of the head, 
Like the brass cannon. 

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide, 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To its full hight ! — On, on, you noble English, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof ! 
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 
Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 189 

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. 

Be copy now for men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war ; and you, good yeomen, 

Whose limbs are made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture : let us swear 

That you are worth you breeding, which I doubt not : 

For there is none of you so mean and base 

That hath not noble lustre in your eye : 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game 's a-foot ; 

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge, 

Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St. George ! 

SHAKSPEA.RE. 



HENRY V, ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS. 

What 's he that wishes for more men from England ? 
My cousin Westmoreland ! No, my fair cousin, 
If we are marked to die, we are enow 
To do our country loss ; and if to live, 
The fewer men the greater share of honor ; 
Heaven's will ! I pray thee wish not one man more. 
In truth I am not covetous of gold, 
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 
It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 
Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 
But if it be a sin to covet honor, 
I am the most offending soul alive. 
No, my good lord, wish not a man from England : 
Heaven's peace ! I would not lose so great an honor 
As one more man methinks would share from me, 
For the best hopes I have. Wish not one more : 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 
That he who hath no stomach to this fight, 
Let him depart, his passport shall be made, 
And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 
We would not die in that man's company 
That fears his fellowship to die with us. 
This day is called the feast of Crispian ; 
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named, 
And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 



190 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars. — 

This story shall the good man teach his son ; 

And Crispian, Crispian, ne'er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered ! 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 



NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. 



" The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, 
now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; 
and there they will remain forever." — Webster. 

New England's dead ! — New England's dead ! 

On every hill they lie ; 
On every field of strife, made red 

By bloody victory. 
Each valley, where the battle poured 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England sword, 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill, 

And on the southern plain, 
By brook and river, lake and rill, 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought, 

And holy where they fell ; 
For by their blood that land was bought, 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band, 
The honored saviors of the land ! 

They left the ploughshare in the mold, 

Their flocks and herds without a fold, 

The sickle in the unshorn grain, 

The corn, half-gamered on the plain, 

And mustered in their simple dress, 

For wrongs to seek a stern redress ; 

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe — 

To perish or o'ercome the foe. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 191 

Oh, few and weak their numbers were — 

A handful of brave men ; 
But to their God they gave their prayer, 

And rushed to battle then. 
The God of battles heard their cry, 
And sent to them the victory. m'lellan. 



DARKNESS. 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander, darkling, in the eternal space, 
Kayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind, and blackening, in the moonless air ; 
Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day ; 
And men forgot their passions, in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. 

Some lay down, 
And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up, 
With mad disquietude, on the dull sky, 
The pall of a past world ; and then again, 
With curses, cast them down upon the dust, 
And. gnashed their teeth, and howled. 

The wild birds shrieked, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings : the wildest brutes 
Came tame, and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. 
The meagre by the meagre were devoured ; 
Even dogs assailed their masters — all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But, with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answered not with a caress — he died. 



192 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place, 
Where had been heaped a mass of holy things, 
For an unholy usage : they raked up, 
And, shivering, scraped, with their cold skeleton hands, 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame, 
Which was a mockery : then they lifted 
Their eyes, as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects : saw, and shrieked, and died, 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written fiend. The world was void ; 
The populous and the powerful was a lump — 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless : 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, 
And nothing stirred within their silent depths : 
Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped, 
They slept, on the abyss, without a surge : 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 
And the clouds perished : darkness had no need 
Of aid from them ; she was the universe. byron. 



THE GLADIATOR. 

They led a lion from his den, 

The lord of Afric's sun-scorched plain : 

And there he stood, stern foe of men, 

And shook his flowing mane. 

There 's not of all Rome's heroes, ten 

That dare abide this game. 

His bright eye nought of lightning lacked ; 

His voice was like the cataract. 

They brought a dark-haired man along, 
Whose limbs with gyves of brass were bound 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 193 

Youthful he seemed, and bold and strong, 
And yet unscathed of wound. 
Blithely he stepped among the throng, 
And careless threw around 
A dark eye, such as courts the path 
Of him who braves a Dacian's wrath. 

Then shouted the plebeian crowd, — 
Rung the glad galleries with the sound ; 
And from the throne there spake aloud 
A voice — " Be the bold man unbound ! 
And by Rome's sceptre yet unbowed, 
By Rome, earth's monarch crowned, 
Who dares the bold, the unequal strife, 
Though doomed to death, shall save his life." 

Joy was upon that dark man's face ; 

And thus, with laughing eye, spake he : 

"Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste, 

And let my arms be free : 

' He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ; — 

But oh ! who will not be 

A hero, when he fights for life, 

For home and country, babes and wife ! " 

And he has bared his shining blade, 
And springs he on the shaggy foe ; 
Dreadful the strife, but briefly played ; — 
The desert-king lies low : 
His long and loud death-howl is made ; 
And there must end the show. 
And when the multitude were calm, 
The favorite freed-man took the palm. 

" Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside ! " 

He knelt, that dark man ; — o'er his brow 

Was thrown a wreath in crimson dyed ; 

And fair words gild it now : 

*' Thou art the bravest youth that ever tried 

To lay a lion low ; 

And from our presence forth thou go'st 

To lead the Dacians of our host. " 

Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride, 
And grieved and gloomily spake he : 
17 



194 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" My cabin stands where blithely glide 
Proud Danube's waters to the sea : 
I have a young and blooming bride, 
And I have children three : — 
No Roman wealth or rank can give 
Such joy as in their arms to live. 

" My wife sits at the cabin door, 

With throbbing heart and swollen eyes ; 

While tears her cheek are coursing o'er, 

She speaks of sundered ties. 

She bids my tender babes deplore 

The death their father dies : 

She tells these jewels of my home, 

I bleed to please the rout of Rome. 

" I cannot let those cherubs stray 
Without their sire's protecting care ; 
And I would chase the griefs away 
Which cloud my wedded fair. " 
The monarch spoke ; the guards obey; 
And gates unclosed are : 
He 's gone ! — No golden bribes divide 
The Dacian from his babes and bride. 



SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 



What gives the mind its latent strength to scan. 
And chains brute instinct at the feet of man — 
Bids the wild comet, in its path of flame, 
Compute its periods and declare its name — 
With deathless radiance decks historic page, 
And wakes the treasures of a buried age ? 
Majestic Science, from his cloistered shrine, 
Heard, and replied — " This godlike power is mine.' 1 
" Oh, then," said man, " my troubled spirit lead, 
Which feels its weakness and deplores its need. 
Come, and the shadowy vale of death illume, 
Show sin a pardon, and disarm the tomb." 
High o'er his ponderous tomes his hand he raised, 
His proud brow kindling as the suppliant gazed : — 
"With Ignorance I war and hoary Time, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 195 

Who wreck with Vandal rage my works sublime — 

What can I more, dismiss your idle pain, 

Your search is fruitless and your labor vain." 

But from the cell where long she dwelt apart, 

Her silent temple in the contrite heart, 

Religion came, and where proud Science failed, 

She bent her knee to earth, and with her Sire prevailed. 

MRS. SIGOURNEY. 



THE O'KAVANAGH. 



The Saxons had met, and the banquet was spread, 
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led ; 
And the banners that hung round the festal that night, 
Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight. 

In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn, 

When earth to new beauty and vigor is born ; 

They shrank from his glance, like the waves from the prow, 

For nature's nobility sat on his brow. 

Attended alone by his vassal and bard — 
No trumpet to herald, no clansmen to guard — 
He came not attended by steed or by steel : 
JS T o danger he knew, for no fear did he feel. 

In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled — 
So proud, yet so knightly — so gallant, yet mild ; 
He moved like a god through the light of that hall, 
And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all. 

" Come pledge us, lord chieftain ! come pledge us ! " they cried ; 

Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied ; 

And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh bore — 

" The friendships to come, not the feuds that are o'er ! " 

But, minstrel, why cometh a change o'er thy theme ? 
Why sing of red battle — what dream dost thou dream ? 
Ha ! " Treason !" 's the cry, and " Revenge ! " is the call, 
As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the hall ! 

A kingdom for Angelo's mind ! to portray 
Green Erin's undaunted avenger that day ; 



196 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting eye, 
Like some comet commissioned with wrath from the sky. 

Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his red way — 
Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array ; 
And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell 
The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell. 

And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance, 
With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each lance : 
He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered heath, 
And swept through their ranks, like the angel of death. 

Then hurrah ! for thy glory, young chieftain, hurrah ! 
Oh ! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-day, 
Again would our "sunburst" expand in the gale, 
And Freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail ! 

J. AUGUSTUS SHEA. 



" LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE." 

Look not upon the wine when it 

Is red within the cup ! 
Stay not for pleasure when she fills 

Her tempting beaker up ! 
Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, 
A spell of madness lurks below. 

They say 't is pleasant on the lip, 

And merry on the brain ; 
They say it stirs the sluggish blood, 

And dulls the tooth of pain. 
Ay — but within its glowing deeps 
A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps. 

Its rosy lights will turn to fire, 

Its coolness change to thirst ; 
And, by its mirth, within the brain 

A sleepless worm is nursed. 
There 's not a bubble at the brim 
That does not carry food for him. 

Then dash the brimming cup aside, 
And spill its purple wine ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 197 

Take not its madness to thy lip — 

Let not its curse be thine. 
'T is red and rich — but grief and woe 
Are hid those rosy depths below. willis. 



ALONZO THE BRAVE. 



A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, 

Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
They gazed on each other with tender delight, 
Alonzo the brave was the name of the knight, 

The maid — was the fair Imogene. 

" And ah ! " said the youth, " since to-morrow I go 

To fight in a far-distant land, 
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, 
Some other will court you, and you will bestow 

On a wealthier suitor your hand." 

" Oh, hush these suspicions ! " fair Imogene said, 

" So hurtful to love and to me ; 
For if you be living, or if you be dead, 
I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead 

Shall husband of Imogene be. 

And if e'er for another my heart should decide, 

Forgetting Alonzo the brave, 
God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride, 
Thy ghost at my marriage may sit by my side, 
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, 

And bear me away to the grave." 

To Palestine hastened the warrior so bold, 

His love she lamented him sore ; 
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold ! 
A baron, all covered with jewels and gold, 

Arrived at fair Imogene's door. 

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, 

Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain, 
He caught her affections, so light and so vain, 

And carried her home as his spouse. 



198 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest, 

The revelry now was begun, 
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast, 
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, 

When the bell of the castle tolled — one ! 

'Twas then, with amazement, fair Imogene found 

A stranger was placed by her side ; 
His air was terrific, he uttered no sound, 
He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around, 

But earnestly gazed on the bride. 
• 

His visor was closed, and gigantic his hight, 

His armor was sable to view ; 
All laughter and pleasure was hushed at his sight, 
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back with affright, 

And the lights in the chamber burnt blue. 

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay, 

The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
At length spoke the bride, while she trembled — " I pray, 
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 

And deign to partake of our cheer." 

The lady is silent — the stranger complies, 

And his visor he slowly unclosed — 
Oh, God ! what a sight met fair Imogene's eyes ! 
What words can express her dismay and surprise, 

When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 

All present then uttered a terrified shout, 
All turned with disgust from the scene ; 
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, 
And sported his eyes and his temples about, 
While the spectre addressed Imogene : 

" Behold me, thou false one ! behold me!" he cried, — 

" Behold thy Alonzo the brave ! 
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, 
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, 
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, 

And bear thee away to the grave ! " 

This saying, his arms round the lady he wound, 
While fair Imogene shrieked with dismay : 



DRAMATIC AtfD DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 



Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning ground, 
Nor ever again was fair Imogene found, 
Or the spectre that bore her away. 

Not long lived the baron, and none since that time 

To inhabit the castle presume ; 
For chronicles tell, that by order sublime, 
There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime, 

And mourns her deplorable doom. 

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, 

When mortals in slumber are bound, 
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, 
Appear in the hall with her skeleton knight, 

And shriek as he whirls her around. 

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, 

Dancing round them pale spectres are seen : 
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
They howl — " To the health of Alonzo the brave, 
And his consort, the false Imogene ! " lewis. 



THE OWL. 

There sat an owl in an old oak-tree, 
Whooping very merrily ; 
He was considering, as well he might, 
Ways and means for a supper that night : 
He looked about with a solemn scowl, 
Yet very happy was the owl, 
For in the hollow of that oak-tree, 
There sat his wife, and his children three. 

She was singing one to rest ; 
Another under her downy breast, 
'Gan trying his voice to learn her song ; 
The third (a hungry owl was he) 
Peeped slily out of the old oak-tree, 
And peered for his dad, and said, " You 're long ;" 
But he hooted for joy when he presently saw 
His sire with a full-grown mouse in his claw. 
Oh, what a supper they had that night ! 
All was feasting and delight ; 



200 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Who most can chatter, or cram, they strive — 
They were the merriest owls alive. 

What then did the old owl do ? 
Ah ! not so gay was his next to-whoo ! 
It was very sadly said, 
For after his children had gone to bed, 
Strange wild fears perplexed his head. — 
He did not sleep with his children three, 
For truly a gentleman owl was he, 
Who would not on his wife intrude, 
When she was nursing her infant brood ; 
So not to invade the nursery, 
He slept outside the hollow tree. 

So when he awoke at the fall of the dew, 
He called his wife with a loud to-whoo — 
" Awake, dear wife, it is evening gray, 
And our joys live from the death of day." 
He called once more, and he shuddered when 
No voice replied to his again ; 
Yet still unwilling to believe 
That evil's raven wing was spread 
Hovering over his guiltless head, 
And shutting out joy from his hollow tree, — 
"Ha — ha — they play me a trick," quoth he, 
" They will not speak, — well, well, at night 
They '11 talk enough, I '11 take a flight." 
But still he went not, in, nor out, 
But hopped uneasily about. 

What then did the father owl ? 
He sat still, until below 
He heard cries of pain and woe. 
And saw his wife and children three 
In a young boy's captivity. 
He followed them with noiseless wing, 
Not a cry once uttering. 
They went to a mansion tall, 
He sat in a window of the hall, 
Where he could see 
His bewildered family ; 
And he heard the hall with laughter ring, 
When the boy said, " Blind they '11 learn to sing : 
And he heard the shriek, when the hot steel pin 
Through their eyeballs was thrust in ! 
He felt it all ! Their agony 
Was echoed by his frantic cry, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 201 

His scream rose up with a mighty swell, 

And wild on the boy's fierce heart it fell ; 

It quailed him, as he shuddering said, 

u Lo ! the little birds are dead." 

But the father owl ! 

He tore his breast in his despair, 

And flew he knew not, recked not, where ! 

Ah ! away, away went the father owl, 

With his wild stare and deathly scowl. 

He had got a strange wild stare, 

For he thought he saw them ever there, 

And he screamed as they screamed, when he saw them fall 

Dead on the floor of the marble hall. 

— Why is the crowd so great to-day, 

And why do the people shout " huzza ? " 

And why is yonder felon given 

Alone to feed the birds of heaven ? 

Had he no friend, now all is done, 

To give his corse a grave ? — Not one ! 

Night has fallen. What means that cry ? 
It descends from the gibbet high — 
There sits on its top a lonely owl, 
With a staring eye, and a dismal scowl ; 
And he screams aloud, " Revenge is sweet ! " 
His mortal foe is at his feet ! anonymous. 



THE MAID OF THE INN. 



Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes 
Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 

She never complains, but her silence implies 
The composure of settled distress. 

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; 

Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 
On her poor withered bosom, half bare ; and her cheek 

Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, 
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been ; 



202 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way, 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 
As Mary, the maid of the inn. 

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, 

As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, 

"When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 
Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say 
That she was too good for his wife. 

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 

And fast were the windows and door ; 
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, 
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, 
They listened to hear the wind roar. 

" ' Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fireside, 

To hear the wind whistle without." 
" A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied — 
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, 
Who should wander the ruins about. 

I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear 

The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, 
For this wind might awaken the dead." 

" I '11 wager a dinner," the other one cried, 

" That Mary would venture there now." 
" Then wager and lose," with a sneer he replied, 
" I '11 warrant she 'd fancy a ghost by her side, 
And faint if she saw a white cow." 

" Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ? " 

His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
" I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, 
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
From the alder that grows in the aisle." 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 203 

With, fearless good humor did Mary comply, 

And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, 
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, 

She shivered with cold as she went. 

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, 

Where the abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid, 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howled dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 

Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle. 

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, 

And hastily gathered the bough — 
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear — 
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now ! 

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head ; — 

She listened ; — naught else could she hear. 
The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 
For she heard in the ruins — distinctly — the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept to conceal herself there ; 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, 

And between them — a corpse did they bear ! 

Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood curdle cold ! 

Again the rough wind hurried by — 
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold ! 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ! — 

She fell — and expected to die ! 

" Curse the hat ! " he exclaims. " Nay come on, and first 
hide 
The dead body," his comrade replies. 



204 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, 
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, 
And fast through the abbey she flies. 

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, 

She gazed horribly eager around ; 
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, 
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 
For a moment the hat met her view ; — 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
For, O God ! what cold horror thrilled through her heart, 
When the name of her Richard she knew. 

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, 

His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
Not far from the inn it engages the eye, 
The traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, 

Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. southey. 



ARNOLD WINKELRIED. 

V Make way for liberty ! " — he cried ; 
Made way for liberty, and died ! — 

It must not be : this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the oppressor's power ! 
All Switzerland is in the field, 
She will not fly, she cannot yield — 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast 
But every freeman was a host, 
And felt as though himself were he, 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one indeed ; 
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 
Unmarked he stood amid the throng, 
In rumination deep and long, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 205 

Till you might see, with sudden grace, 

The very thought come o'er his face ; 

And, by the motion of his form, 

Anticipate the bursting storm ; 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 't was no sooner thought than done ! 
The field was in a moment won : — 
" Make way for liberty ! " he cried, 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
Ten spears he swept within his grasp : 
" Make way for liberty ! " he cried, 
Their keen points met from side to side ; 
He bowed amongst them like a tree, 
And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly : 
" Make way for liberty ! " they cry, 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart ; 
While instantaneous as his fall, 
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all : 
An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free ; 
Thus death made way for liberty ! Montgomery, 



THE MANIAC. 

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I 'm now, too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I '11 rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild, though sad 
But yet I firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad, I am not mad. 

My tyrant husband forged the tale 
Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 

My fate unknown my friends bewail — 
Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell : 



206 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer : 
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad 

To know, though kept a captive here, 
I am not mad, I am not mad. 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — 

'T is gone ! and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! — 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I 'm chained, this freezing night, 

Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ; 

What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth, — 
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, 

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, 

Which never more my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart, how burns my head ; 

But 'tis not mad ; no, 'tis not mad. 

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 

A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? 
She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 
Nor how with her you sued to stay ; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; 

They '11 make me mad, they '11 make me mad. 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
None ever bore a lovelier child : 

And art thou now forever gone ? 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ; I am not mad. 

Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? 

His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; 

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 207 

Help ! help ! — He's gone ! — Oil ! fearful woe, 
Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 

My brain, my brain, — I know, I know, 
I am not mad, but soon shall be. 



Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I 

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! 
He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whirls a serpent high in air. 
Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; 

Your task is done — I'm mad ! I 'm mad ! 

LEWIS. 



THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND. 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerly smiled the morn, 
And many a dog and many a hound 
Obeyed Lewellyn's horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast, 
And gave a lustier cheer — 
" Come, Gelert, thou wert ne'er the last 
Lewellyn's horn to hear. 

Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, 
The flower of all his race ? 
So true, so brave, a lamb at home, 
A lion in the chase ! " 

'T was only at Lewellyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, 

And sentineled his bed. 

In sooth he was a peerless hound, 
The gift of royal John ; 
But now, no Gelert could be found, 
And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 
The gallant chidings rise, 



208 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 
The many mingled cries. 

That day Lewellyn little loved 

The chase of hart or hare, 

And scant and small the booty proved — 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased Lewellyn homeward hied ; 
When, near the portal seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied, 
Bounding his lord to greet. 

But when he gained his castle door, 
Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore, 
His lips, his fangs ran blood. 

Lewellyn gazed with fierce surprise, 
Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favorite checked his joyful guise, 
And crouched and licked his feet. 

Onward in haste Lewellyn past, 
And on went Gelert too, 
And still where'er his eyes he cast, 
Fresh blood-drops shocked his view. 

O'erturned his infant's bed he found, 
With blood-stained covert rent ; 
And all around the walls and ground, 
With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied ; 
He searched with terror wild : 
Blood, blood he found on every side, 
But nowhere found his child. 

" Hellhound ! my child 's by thee devoured,' 

The frantic father cried, 

And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Gelert's side. 

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, 
No pity could impart, 
But still his Gelert's dying yell 
Passed heavy o'er his heart. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 209 

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 
Some slumberer wakened nigh, 
What words the parent's joy could tell, 
To hear his infant cry. 

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, 
His hurried search had missed ; 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, 
The cherub boy he kissed. 

No wound had he, nor harm, nor dread ; 
But the same couch beneath, 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 
Tremendous still in death. 

Ah, what was then Lewellyn's pain ? 
For now the truth was clear ; 
His gallant hound the wolf had slain, 
To save Lewellyn's heir. 

Vain, vain was all Lewellyn's woe : 
" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic blow that laid thee low, 
This heart shall ever rue." 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 
With costly sculpture decked ; 
And marble, storied with his praise, 
Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

There, never could the spearman pass, 
Or forester, unmoved ; 
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Lewellyn's sorrow proved. 

And there he hung his horn and spear, 
And there, as evening fell, 
In fancy's ear he oft would hear 
Poor Gelert's dying yell. 

And 'till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 

And cease the storm to brave, 

The consecrated spot shall hold 

The name of " Gelert's Grave." w. spencer. 



18 



210 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



THE MUMMY. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) 
In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are temendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy, 
Thou hast a tongue, come let us hear its tune : 

Thou 'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy ! 
Kevisiting the glimpses of the moon ; 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, 

To whom should we assign the sphynx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade, 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles 

Are vain; — Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat, 
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 211 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

"We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended ; 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold ; — 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 

And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : — 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence, 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost forever ? 
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue ; that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. smith. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom, from her mountain Light, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there ! 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 



212 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen band ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rearest aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumping loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When stride the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven ! 
Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war — 

The harbingers of victory. 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
(Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,) 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy meteor glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance ! 
And when the cannon's mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
There shall thy victor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
Each gallant arm, that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean's wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, 
When Death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back, 
Before the broadside's reeling rack ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. ■ 213 

The dying wand'rer of the sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly, 

In triumph o'er his closing eye. dr. drake. 



PARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION. 

Not far advanced was morning day, 
When Marmion did his troops array, 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe-conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide ; 
The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whispered, in an under tone, 
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
The train from out the castle drew ; 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — 

" Though something I might plain," he said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 
While in Tantallon's towers I staid, 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : 
"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open, at my sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone, 
From turret to foundation stone, — 
The hand of Douglas is his own, 
And never shall, in friendly grasp, 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 

Burned Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame with ire, 

And — " This to me ! " he said, — 
" An 't were not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion' s had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 



214 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, 
He, who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou said'st, I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; 
Fierce he broke forth — " And dar'st thou then 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no !— - 
Up draw-bridge, grooms — what, warder, ho ! 

Let the portcullis fall." — 
Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, 
And dashed the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending razed his plume. 

The steed along the draw-bridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

Not lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim. 

And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 

He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 

And shout of loud defiance pours, 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

" Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and chase ! 

But soon he reined his fury's pace : 

" A royal messenger he came, 

Though most unworthy of the name. — 

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood ; 

I thought to slay him where he stood. — 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 215 

'Tis pity of him, too," he cried ; 

" Bold can he speak, and fairly ride : 

I warrant him a warrior tried." — 

With this his mandate he recalls, 

And slowly seeks his castle halls, scott. 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood ! 

When fond recollection presents them to view ; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
That moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 

As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from that loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 

WOODWORTH. 



216 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



WARREN'S ADDRESS. 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What 's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they 're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail ? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may — and die we must : — 

But, oh, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ? pierpont. 



BATTLE OF WARSAW. 

When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars 
Her whiskered panders and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion, from her hight surveyed, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid — 
Oh, Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 217 

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! Our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high, 
And swear for her to live ! with her to die ! 

He said, and on the rampart-hights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
Firm paced, and slow, a horrid, front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly ; 
Revenge or death — the watchword and reply ; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : 

Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of time, 

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 

Closed her bright eye, and curbed the high career : — 

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 

And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell ! Campbell. 



BROUGHAM AND CANNING. 



Upon that occasion, the oration of Brougham was, at the 
outset, disjointed and ragged, and apparently without aim or 
application. He careered over the whole annals of the world, 
and collected every instance in which genius had degraded itself 
at the footstool of power, or principle had been sacrificed for the 
vanity or the lucre of place ; but still there was no allusion to 
Canning, and no connection that ordinary men could discover 
with the business before the house. When, however, he had 
collected every material which suited his purpose, — when the 
mass had become big and black, he bound it about and about 
with the cords of illustration and of argument ; when its union 
was secure, he swung it round and round, with the strength of a 
giant and the rapidity of a whirlwind, in order that its impetus 
and its effect might be the more tremendous ; and, while doing 
this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and pointed his finger, to 
make the aim and the direction sure. 
19 



218 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Canning himself was the first that seemed to be aware, where 
and how terrible was to be the collision ; and he kept writhing 
his body in agony, and rolling his eyes in fear, as if anxious to 
find some shelter from the impending bolt. The house soon 
caught the impression, and every man in it was glancing his eye 
fearfully, first toward the orator, and then toward the secretary. 
There was, save the voice of Brougham, which growled in that 
under tone of muttered thunder, which is so fearfully audible, 
and of which no speaker of the day was fully master but himself, 
a silence as if the angel of retribution had been flaring in the face 
of all parties the scroll of their personal and political sins. A 
pen, which one of the secretaries dropped upon the matting, was 
heard in the remotest part of the house ; and the voting mem- 
bers, who often slept in the side galleries during the debate, 
started up as though the final trump had been sounding them to 
give an account of their deeds. 

The stiffness of Brougham's figure had vanished ; his features 
seemed concentrated almost to a point ; he glanced toward every 
part of the house in succession ; and, sounding the death-knell 
of the secretary's forbearance and prudence, with both his 
clenched hands upon the table, he hurled at him an accusation 
more dreadful in its gall, and more torturing in its effects, than 
ever had been hurled at mortal man within the same Avails. The 
result was instantaneous — was electric : it was as when the 
thunder-cloud descends upon some giant peak — one flash, one 
peal — the sublimity vanished, and all that remained was a small 
and cold pattering of rain. Canning started to his feet, and was 
able only to utter the unguarded words, ''It is false !" to which 
followed a dull chapter of apologies. From that moment, the 
house became more a scene of real business, than of airy display 
and angry vituperation. anonymous. 



"EXCELSIOR." 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
"Excelsior!" 

His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 219 

And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
" Excelsior ! " 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
" Excelsior ! " 

« Try not the pass ! " the old man said, 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Oh ! stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " — 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; — 
A voice replied, far up the Eight, 
" Excelsior ! " 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
"Excelsior!" 

A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior !" 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — 

" Excelsior ! " Longfellow. 



220 T-fiE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822. 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; 
Our land, — the first garden of Liberty's tree — 
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free ; 

For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted, 
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves, 
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 

And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ! what though no succor advances, 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 

Are stretched in our aid ? — Be the combat our own ! 

And we '11 perish or conquer more proudly alone : 

For we 've sworn by our country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they 've dragged from our altars, 

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
That living, we will .be victorious, 
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not ; 

The sword that we 've drawn we will sheathe not ; 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Earth may hide — waves engulf — fire consume us, 

But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ; — 
But we 've smote them already with fire on the waves, 

And new triumphs on land are before us. 

To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us ! 

CAMPBELL. 



WHAT IS TIME ? 



I asked an aged man, a man of cares, 
Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs : 
" Time is the warp of fife," he said, " oh, tell 
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well ! " 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 221 

I asked the ancient, venerable dead, 

Sages who wrote, and warriors who had bled : 

From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, 

" Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode ! " 

I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide 

Of life had left his veins : " Time ! " he replied; 

" I 've lost it ! Ah, the treasure ! " — and he died. 

I asked the golden sun, and silver spheres, 

Those bright chronometers of days and years : 

They answered, " Time is but a meteor glare ! " 

And bade us for eternity prepare. 

I asked the seasons, in their annual round, 

Which beautify, or desolate the ground : 

And they replied, (no oracle more wise,) 

" 'T is folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize ! " 

I asked a spirit lost : but oh, the shriek 

That pierced my soul ! I shudder while I speak ! 

It cried, " A particle, a speck, a mite 

Of endless years, duration infinite ! " 

Of things inanimate, my dial I 

Consulted, and it made me this reply : 

" Time is the season fair of living well, 

The path of glory, or the path of hell." 

I asked my Bible : and methinks it said, 

" Time is the present hour, — the past is fled ; 

Live ! live to-day ! — to-morrow never yet 

On any human being rose or set." 

I asked old father Time himself, at last, 

But in a moment he flew swiftly past : 

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind 

His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. 

MARSDEN. 



BOADICEA. 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mein, 
Counsel of her country's gods ; 

Sage beneath a spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief, 

Every burning word he spoke, 
Full of rage and full of grief : — 



222 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Princess, if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'T is because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

" Rome shall perish — write that word 

In the blood that she has spilt ; 
Perish hopeless and abhorred, 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

"Rome, for empire far renowned, 

Tramples on a thousand states ; 
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 

Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates, 

"Other Romans shall arise, 

Heedless of a soldier's name, 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 

Harmony the path to fame. 

*' Then the progeny that springs 

From the forests of our land, 
Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 

Shall a wider world command. 

" Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway, 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they." 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Bending as he swept the chords, 

Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow, — 

Rushed to battle, fought and died — 
Dying, hurled them at the foe : 

" Ruffians ! pitiless as proud ! 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ! 
Empire is on us bestowed, — 

Shame and ruin wait on you ! " cowper. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 223 



THE BENDED BOW. 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow ; 
And a voice was poured on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sound of war : 

" Heard ye not the battle horn ? 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of heaven ; 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven : 
Leave it for the winds to shed, — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red ! " 

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son ; 

And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain chase ! 

Take the falchion from its place ! 

Let the wolf go free to-day ; 

Leave him for a nobler prey ! 

Let the deer ungalled sweep by, — 

Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh ! " 
And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fire gives ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth and leave the hall, — ■ 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall ! " 

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown ; 

And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told 

In the bower and in the hold ! 

Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 

Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 

Foes are on thy native sea, — 

Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 
And the prince came armed, like a leader's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy ! 
He must learn the battle's joy. 



224 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 

Give thy brother words of cheer ! 

Maiden ! bid thy lover part ; 

Britain calls the strong in heart ! " 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on ; 
And the bards made songf of a battle won. 



MRS. HEMANS. 



LOCHINVAR. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best, 
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 

" Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? " 

" I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar : — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 225 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall door, where the charger stood near ; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 

'■ She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur : 

They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Grsemes of the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Canoby lea, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. scott. 



THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The king was on his throne, 

The satraps thronged the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deemed divine — 
Jehovah's vessels — hold 

The godless heathen's wine ! 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man, — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 
And bade no more rejoice ; 

All bloodless waxed his look, 
And tremulous his voice : — 



226 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth. " 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill } 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth ; 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom passed away ; 
He, in the balance weighed, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! " byron. 



THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM. 



In slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory stood sidewise, half covered with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 227 

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise — 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamin clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 

And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, 

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear, 

And the lips of the boy in a love -kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high hi his breast, 

Joy quickens his pulse — all his hardships seem o'er, 

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
" God, thou hast blest me — I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame, which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that soimd which now larums his ear ? 
'T is the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky ! 

'T is the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere l 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire — 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck — 

The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell — 
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave ! 

Oh, sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight ; 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss — 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? 

Oh, sailor-boy ! sailor -boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 



228 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. 

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 

And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll — 

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye — 

Oh, sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul. dimond. 



THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 

With viscous thread, and finger fine, 
The spider spun his filmy line ; 
The extremes with stronger cordage tied, 
And wrought the web from side to side. 

Beneath the casement's pendant roof, 
He hung aloft the shadowy woof : — 
There in the midst compressed he lies, 
And patient waits the expected prize. 

When, lo ! on sounding pinion strong, 
A bee, incautious, rushed along ; 
ISTor of the gauzy net aware, 
Till all entangled in the snare. 

Enraged, he plies his buzzing wings, 
His far-resounding war-song sings ; 
Tears all that would his course control, 
And threatens ruin to the whole. 

With dread, with gladness, with surprise, 
The spider saw the dangerous prize ; 
Then rushed relentless on his foe, 
Intent to give the deadly blow. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.. 229 

But as the spider came in view, 
The bee his poisoned dagger drew ; — 
Back at the sight the spider ran, 
And now his crafty work began. 

With lengthened arms the snares he plied, 
And turned the bee from side to side ; 
His legs he tied, his wings he bound, 
And whirled his victim round and round. 

And now with cautious steps and slow, 
He came to give the fatal blow ; 
When, frightened at the trenchant blade, 
The bee one desperate effort made. 

The fabric breaks — the cords give way ; 
His wings resume their wonted play ; 
Far off on gladsome plume he flies, 
And drags the spider through the skies. 

Shun vice's snares ; — but if you 're caught, 
Boldly resist, and parley not ; 
Then, though your foe you cannot kill, 
You '11 lead him captive where you will. 

ANONYMOUS. 



DEATH-SONG OF OUTALISSI. 

" And I could weep ; " — the Oneida chief 

His descant wildly thus begun ; 
" But that I may not stain with grief 

The death-song of my father's son ! 
Or bow this head in woe ; 
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! 
To-morrow Areouski's breath, 
( That fires yon heaven with storms and death, ) 

Shall light us to the foe : 
And we shall share, my Christian boy ! 
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

" But thee, my flower, whose breath was givei? 

By milder genii o'er the deep, 
The spirits of the white man's heaven 

Forbid not thee to weep : — 



THE ttEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Nor will the Christian host, 
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve 
To see thee, on the battle's eve, 
Lamenting take a mournful leave 

Of her who loved thee most : 
She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 
Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! — 

" To-morrow let us do or die ! 

But when the bolt of death is hurled, 
Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 

Shall Outalissi roam the world ? — 

Seek we thy once loved home ? 

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers ; 

Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 

Cold is the hearth within their bowers ! 

And should we thither roam, 
Its echoes, and its empty tread, 
Would sound like voices from the dead ! 

" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 
"Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, 

And by my side, in battle true, 

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? — 
Ah ! there in desolation cold, 

The desert serpent dwells alone, 

Where grass o'ergrows each moldering bone, 

And stones, themselves to ruin grown, 
Like me, are death-like old. 

Then seek we not their camp — for there — 

The silence dwells of my despair 1 

" But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou 

In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : 
Even from the land of shadows now 

My father's awful ghost appears, 

Amid the clouds that round us roll ; 
He bids my soul for battle thirst, 
He bids me dry the last — the first — 
The only tear that ever burst 

From Outalissi' s soul ; 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief." campbell. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 231 



DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 

The king stood still 
Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe : 

" Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 

And hear thy sweet ' my father ! ' from those dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

" But death is on thee ; I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How will its love for thee, as I depart, 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell ! 'T is hard to give thee up, 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ! — 

And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the cup, 
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
My lost boy, Absalom !" 



232 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself 

A moment on his child ; then, giving him 

A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 

His hands convulsively, as if in prayer. 

And, as if strength were given him of God, 

He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 

Firmly and decently — and left him there, 

As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. willis. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he '11 reck, if they '11 let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 233 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly Ave laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory ! wolfe. 



ABSALOM'S DREAM. 



Methought I stood again, at dead of night, 
In that rich sepulchre, viewing, alone, 
The wonders of the place. My wondering eyes 
Rested upon the costly sarcophage 
Reared in the midst. I saw therein a form 
Like David : not as he appears, but young 
And ruddy. In his lovely tinctured cheek, 
The vermil blood looked pure and fresh as life 
In gentle slumber. On his blooming brow 
Was bound the diadem. But while I gazed, 
The phantasm vanished, and my father lay there, 
As he is now, his head and beard in silver, 
Sealed with the pale fixed impress of the tomb, 
I knelt and wept. But, when I thought to kiss 
My tears from off his reverend cheek, a voice 
Cried, " Impious ! hold ! " — and suddenly there stood 
A dreadful and refulgent form before me, 
Bearing the Tables of the Law. 
It spake not, moved not, but still sternly pointed 
To one command, which shone so fiercely bright, 
It seared mine eyeballs. Presently I seemed 
Transported to the desolate wild shore 
Of Asphaltites, night, and storm, and fire, 
Astounding me with horror. All alone 
I wandered ; but where'er I turned my eyes, 
On the bleak rocks, or pitchy clouds, or closed them, 
Flamed that command. 

Then suddenly I sunk down, down, methought, 
Ten thousand cubits, to a wide 
And traveled way, walled to the firmament 
On either side, and filled with hurrying nations ; 
Hurrying, or hurried by some spell, 
20 



234 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Toward a portentous adamantine g£frte, 

Towering before us to the empyrean. 

Beside it Abraham sat, in reverend years 

And gracious majesty, snatching his seed 

From its devouring jaws. When I approached, 

He groaned forth, " Parricide ! " and stretched no aid — 

To me alone, of all his children. Then, 

What flames, what howling fiery billows caught me, 

Like the red ocean of consuming cities, 

And shapes most horrid ; all, methought, in crowns 

Scorching as molten brass, and every eye 

Bloodshot with agony, yet none had power 

To tear them off. With frantic yells of joy, 

They crowned me too, and with the pang, I woke. 

HILLHOUSE. 



THE DOWNFALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye : 
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched 
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favors ! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again ! — 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 235 

Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 

And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 

Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee, — 

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, — 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by ? t ? 

Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell, 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. shakspeare. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 

When spring, to woods and wastes around, 
Brought bloom and joy again, 

The murdered traveler's bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 

His hanging nest o'erhead ; 
And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away ; 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Grew sorrowful and dim. 



THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarmed, and hard beset ; — 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 

The northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 

To banquet on the dead ; — 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 

Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

So long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. bryant. 



THE LEPER. 

" Room for the leper ! room ! " And as he came, 
The cry passed on — " Room for the leper ! room 

And aside they stood, 
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 
And onward through the open gate he came, 
A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
A covering, stepping painfully and slow, 
And with a difficult utterance, like one 
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 
Crying, " Unclean ! — unclean ! " 

Day was breaking 
When at the altar of the temple stood 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 237 

The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp 
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant 
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, 
Like an articulate wail ; and there, alone, 
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 
The echoes of the melancholy strain 
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, 
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head 
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
His costly raiment for the leper's garb, 
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 
Waiting to hear his doom : — 

"Depart! depart, child 
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God, 
For he has smote thee with his chastening rod, 

And to the desert wild 
From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee, 
That from thy plague his people may be free. 

" Depart ! and come not near 
The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. 

And stay thou not to hear 
Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly 
From all who in the wilderness pass by. 

" Wet not thy burning lip 
In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide, 

Nor kneel thee down to dip 
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
By desert well, or river's grassy brink. 

"And pass not thou between 
The weary traveler and the cooling breeze, 
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 

Where human tracks are seen ; 
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 

"And now depart ! and when 
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him, 



238 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Who, from the tribes of men, 
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod — 
Depart ! leper ! and forget not God ! " 

And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way, 
Sick and heart-broken, and alone — to die ! — 
For God had cursed the leper ! 

It was noon, 
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched 
The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
Praying that he might be so blest — to die ! 
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, 
He drew the covering closer on his lip, 
Crying, " Unclean ! unclean ! " and in the folds 
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er 
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — 
" Helon ! " The voice was like the master-tone 
Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; 
And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
" Helon ! arise ! " and he forgot his curse, 
And rose and stood before him. 

Love and awe 
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye, 
As he beheld the stranger. He was not 
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
No followers at his back, nor in his hand 
Buckler, or sword, or spear — yet in his mien 
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, 
A kingly condescension graced his lips, 
The lion would have crouched to in his lair. 
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn ; 
His stature modeled with a perfect grace ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 239 

His countenance, the impress of a God, 
Touched with the open innocence of a child ; 
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky- 
In the serenest noon ; his hair, unshorn, 
Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard 
The fullness of perfected manhood bore. 
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 
As if his heart was moved ; and stooping down, 
He took a little water in his hand 
And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean ! " 
And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 
The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him. willis. 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. 

" Oh, call my brother back to me, 

I cannot play alone ! 
The summer comes with flower and bee — 

Where is my brother gone ? 

The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track ; 
I care not now to chase its flight — 

Oh, call my brother back ! 

The flowers run wild — the flowers we sowed 

Around our garden tree ; 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

Oh, call him back to me ! " 

" He would not hear my voice, fair child ! 

He may not come to thee ; 
The face that once like spring-time smiled, 

On earth no more thou 'It see. 

The rose's brief, bright light of joy, 

Such unto him was given : 
Go, thou must play alone, my boy ! 

Thy brother is in heaven." 



240 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" And has he left his birds and flowers ? 

And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours, 

Will he not come again ? 

And by the brook, and in the glade, 

Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
Oh ! while my brother with me played, 

Would I had loved him more." mrs. hemans. 



THE GIPSEY WANDERER. 

'T was night, and the farmer, his fireside near, 
O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old ; 
The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear — 
" Let me in, I beseech you ! " just so ran the prayer — 
" Let me in ! — I am dying with cold." 

To his servant, the farmer cried — " Sue, move thy feet, 

Admit the poor wretch from the storm ; 
For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat, 
Although the night wanderer may there find a seat, 
And beside our wood embers grow warm." 

At that instant a gipsy girl, humble in pace, 

Bent before him, his pity to crave : 
He, starting, exclaimed, " Wicked fiend, quit this place ! 
A parent's curse light on the whole gipsy race ! 

They have bowed me almost to the grave! " 

" Good sir, as our tribe passed the churchyard below, 

I just paused, the turf graves to survey — 
I fancied the spot where my mother lies low — 
When suddenly came on a thick fall of snow, 
And I know not a step of my way." 

" This is craft ! " cried the farmer, — "if I judge aright, 
I suspect thy cursed gang may be near ; 

Thou would' st open the doors to the ruffians of night ; 

Thy eyes o'er the plunder now rove with delight, 
And on me with sly treachery leer ! " 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 24 i 

With a shriek — on the floor the young gipsy girl fell ; 

" Help," cried Susan, " your child to uprear ! 
Your long stolen child ! — she remembers you well, 
And the terrors and joys in her bosom which swell, 

Are too mighty for nature to bear I " anonymous. 



GLENARA. 

Oh ! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 
'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; 
And her sire and her people are called to her bier. 

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud ; 
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud ; 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
They marched all in silence — they looked to the ground. 

In silence they passed over mountain and moor, 
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar : — 
" JSTow here let us place the gray-stone of her cairn ; — 
Why speak ye no word ?" said Glenara the stern. 

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, 
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ? " 
So spake the rude chieftain : no answer is made, 
But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed. 

" I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; 
" And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : 
Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 

Oh ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween ; 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen : 
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn — 
'T was the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : — 

" I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, 
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; 
On the rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem : 
Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 
21 



242 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 

And the desert revealed where his lady was found : 

From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne : 

Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn. Campbell. 



CASABIANCA. 



" Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admmtl 
of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship 
had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the 
explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder." 

The boy stood on the burning deck* 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : — "Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done ? " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! 
And " — but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 
" My father, must I stay ? " 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 2.43 

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
They streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part — 
But the noblest thing that perished there, 

Was that young faithful heart. mrs. hemans. 



THE SONG OF CONSTANCE. 

Where shall the lover rest, 

Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast, 

Parted for ever ? 
Where through groves deep and high 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow, 

Soft shall be his pillow. 
There, through the summer day, 

Cool streams are laving ; 
There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There thy rest shalt thou take, 

Parted for ever ; 
Never again to wake — 

Never, oh, never! 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He the deceiver, 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin and leave her ? 



244 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying, 

There shall he be lying. 
Her wing shall the raven flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever : 
Blessings shall hallow it 

Never ! oh, never ! scott. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride, 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray on the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. byron. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 245 



THE BATTLE OF BUSACO. 

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun 
When far had rolled the sultry sun, 
And night her pall of gloom had thrown 
On nature's still convexity ; 

High on the heath our tents were spread, 
The cold turf was our cheerless bed, 
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head 

The banners napped incessantly. 

The loud war-trumpet woke the morn, — 
The quivering drum, the pealing horn, — 
From rank to rank the cry is borne, 

" Arouse for death or victory ! " 

The orb of day, in crimson dye, 
Began to mount the morning sky ; 
Then, what a scene for warrior's eye 
Hung on the bold declivity ! 

The serried bayonets glittering stood, 
Like icicles on hills of blood ; 
An aerial stream, a silver wood, 

Reeled in the nickering canopy. 

Like waves of ocean rolling fast, 
Or thunder-cloud before the blast, 
JMassena's legions, stern and vast, 

Rushed to the dreadful revelry. 

The pause is o'er : the fatal shock 
A thousand thousand thunders woke ; 
The air grows thick ; the mountains rock ; 
Red ruin rides triumphantly. 

Light rolled the war-cloud to the sky, 
In phantom towers and columns high, 
But dark and dense their bases lie 

Prone on the battle's boundary. 

The thistle waved her bonnet blue, 
The harp her wildest war-notes threw, 
The red rose gained a fresher hue, 
Busaco, in thy heraldry. 



246 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Hail, gallant brothers ! Woe befall 
The foe that braves thy triple "wall ! — 
Thy sons, wretched Portugal ! 

Roused at their feats of chivalry, anonymous. 



PULASKI'S BANNER. 



" The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole, who fell in the attack 
on Savannah, during the American revolution, was of crimson silk, em- 
broidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethelem, Pennsylvania." 

When the dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head, 

And the censer burning swung, 

Where before the altar hung 

That round banner, which, with prayer, 

Had been consecrated there ; 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while 
Sung low in the deep mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner. May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave, 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ; and beneath 
The war-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it till our homes are free — 
Guard it — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner. But when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ; by our holy vow, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 247 

By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears, 

Spare him ; he our love hath shared, 

Spare him — as thou wouldst be spared. 

" Take thy banner ; and if e'er 

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 

And the muffled drum should beat 

To the tread of mournful feet, 

Then this crimson flag shall be 

Martial cloak and shroud for thee ! " 
And the warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud, anonymous. 



GINEVRA. 

She was an only child, her name Ginevra, 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francisco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

She was all gentleness, all gayety, 
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
And in the lustre of her youth she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francisco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, 
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting, 
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
" 'T is but to make a trial of our love ! " 
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 

'T was but that instant she had left Francisco, 
Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger ; 
But, now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, 
But that she was not ! 

Weary of his life, 
Francisco flew to Venice, and embarking, 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 



248 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The father lived, and long might you have seen 

An old man wandering as if in quest of something — 

Something he could not find, he knew not what. 

When he was gone, the house remained awhile 

Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 

When on an idle day, a day of search, 

'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 

That moldering chest was noticed, and 't was said 

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 

" Why not remove it from its lurking place ? " 

'T was done as soon as said, but on the way 

It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 

All else had perished — save a wedding ring 

And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 

Engraven with a name, the name of both, " Ginevra." 

There then she had found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, 
When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down forever ! rogers. 



THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS. 



I 've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, 
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, 
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er. 
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. 

And there I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear, 
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear ; 
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous ; 
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus : — 

" It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, 
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells ; 
But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock, 
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. 

" One cloudless sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, 
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, 
As if some awful deed were done — a shriek of grief and pain, 
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 249 

" I hurried out to learn the cause ; but, overwhelmed with fright, 
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight 
I missed the .youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; 
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through 
the air. 

" Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye, — 
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry ; 
And now, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave, 
That earthly power could not avail that innocent to save ! 

" My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, 
And. struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free ; 
At intervals I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed ! 
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. 

The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew ; 
A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view ; 
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight, — 
'T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. 

" All search was vain, and years had passed ; that child was ne'er 

forgot, 
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, 
From thence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, 
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! 

" I clambered up that rugged cliff, — I could not stay away, — 
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay ; 
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred ; 
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head." 

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by, 
Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go without a sigh. 
And as I journeyed the next morn, along my sunny way, 
The precipice was shown to me whereon the infant lay. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. 



The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead, 

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread ; 

The robiu and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. 



250 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung 

and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ! 
Alas ! they all are in their graves — the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours : 
The rain is falling where they lie — but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the summer's glow ; 

But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on 

men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and 

glen. 

And now when comes the calm mild day — as still such days will 

come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are 

still, 
And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief ; 
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

BRYANT. 



THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. 

There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons imparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. 

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIFriVE PIECES. 251 

In every clime, the magnet of his sonl, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole : 
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. 

Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 

Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; 

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 

Around her knees domestic duties meet, 

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 

Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found ? 

Art thou a man ? a patriot ? look around ; 

Oh ! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 

That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 

MONTGOMERY. 



THE HURRICANE. 

The golden blaze 
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray - 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 
A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
To its covert glides the silent bird, 
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard, 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 
And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold 
His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 
Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! 
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ! 
How his huge and writhing arms are bent, 
To clasp the zone of the firmament, 
And fold at length in the dark embrace, 
From mountain to mountain the visible space ! 



252 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Darker — still darker! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air : 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart. 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the sky with a lurid glow. 

What roar is that ? — 't is the rain that breaks, 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
And sheading a nameless horror round. 
Ah ! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 
With the very clouds ! — ye are lost to my eyes. 
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all ; 
And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. bryant. 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude 

That shrunk to hear his name, — 
All stern of look and strong of limb, 

His dark eye on the ground ; 
And silently they gazed on him, 

As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought 

He was a captive now ; 
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow : 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore 

Showed warrior true and brave : 
A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake — 
" My brother is a king : 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 253 

Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring, 
And send me where my brother reigns, 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains, 

And gold dust from the sands.'* 

'.* !N"ot for thy ivory nor thy gold 

Will I unbind thy chain ; 
That bloody hand shall never hold 

The battle-spear again. 
A price thy nation never gave 

Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, 

In land beyond the sea." 

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 

To shred his locks away, 
And, one by one, each heavy braid 

Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long, 

And deftly hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 

The dark and crisped hair. 

" Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, 

Long kept for sorest need : 
Take it — thou askest sums untold — 

And say that I am freed. 
Take it — my wife, the long, long day, 

Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 
And my young children leave their play, 

And ask in vain for me." 

" I take thy gold, — but I have made 

Thy fetters fast and strong, 
And ween that by the cocoa shade 

Thy wife shall wait thee long." 
Strong was the agony that shook 

The captive's frame to hear, 
And the proud meaning of his look 

Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken — crazed his brain — 
At once his eye grew wild : 



254 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
Whispered, — and wept, — and smiled ; 

Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 
And once, at shut of day, 

They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena's prey. bryant. 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
And who so stout of limb as he ? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 
His voice was like the voice of three. 
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 
111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door, 
Might see how poor a hut she had. 

Now when the frost was past enduring, 
And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could anything be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
And now and then it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
And vowed that she should be detected, 
And he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm fire he 'd go, 
And to the fields his road would take, 
And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once behind a rack of barley, 
Thus looking out did Harry stand ; 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
— He hears a noise — he 's all awake — 
Again ! — on tiptoe down the hill 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 255 

He softly creeps — 'T is Goody Blake ! 
She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Eight glad was he when he beheld her : 
Stick after stick did Goody pull ; 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 
Till she had filled her apron full. 
When with her load she turned about, 
The by-road back again to take ; 
He started forward with a shout, 
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 

And by the arm he held her fast, 

And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 

And cried, "I've caught you then at last ! " 

Then Goody, who had nothing said, 

Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 

And kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 

To God that is the Judge of all. 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
While Harry held her by the arm — 
" God ! who art never out of hearing, 
may he never more be warm ! " 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 
Young Harry heard what she had said, 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow, 
That he was cold and very chill : 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
Alas that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he : 
Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the sabbath he had three. 

*T was all in vain, a useless matter, 

And blankets were about him pinned : 

Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 

Like a loose casement in the wind. 

And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 

And all who see him say 't is plain, 

That live as long as live he may, 

He never will be warm again. wordsworth, 



256 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



WHAT 'S HALLOWED GROUND ? 

What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That 's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed, 

The lips repose our love has kissed ; — 

But where 's their memory's mansion ? Is 't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'T is not the sculptured piles you heap : 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in heaven's sight, 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that : and welcome war to brace 

Her drums ! and rend heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

What 's hallowed ground ? 'T is what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high-priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground ! campbell. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 25? 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

At summer's eve, when heaven's aerial bow 
Spans, with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky ? 
Why do those hills of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 
'T is distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain with its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way : 
Thus, from afar, each dim discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been ; 
And every form that fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? 
Can Wisdom lend, with all her boasted power, 
The pledge of joy's anticipated hour ? 
Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man, 
Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 
Or if she holds an image to the view, 
'T is nature, pictured too severely true. 
With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light 
That pours remotest rapture on the sight ; 
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, 
That calls each slumbering passion into play. 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time, 
Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade. 
When all the sister planets have decayed, — 
When wrapt in fire, the realms of ether glow, 
And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, — 
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile. Campbell. 



PATRIOTISM. 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

" This is my own — my native land ! " 

22 



258 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ! 
For him no minstrel's raptures swell. 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — - 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch concentred all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. scott. 



GREECE. 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was freedom's home, or glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave, 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this : 
The gulf, the rock, of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own : 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear, 
That tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame ; 
For freedom's battle, once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 
Attest it, many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 259 

Have left a nameless pyramid, 

Thy heroes, though the general doom 

Hath swept the column from their tomb, 

A mightier monument command — 

The mountains of their native land ! 

There points thy muse, to stranger's eye, 

The graves of those that cannot die ! 

'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 

Each step from splendor to disgrace : 

Enough, no foreign foe could quell 

Thy soul, till from itself it fell. 

Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 

To villain bonds and despot sway. byron. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

'T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blessed ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 



260 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one, arise, — we come, we come ! " 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! — 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend : 

That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

that the present hour would lend 

Another despot of the kind ! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords and native ranks 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine : — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! byron. 



THE RAISING OF SAMUEL. 

" Thou, whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear." 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer ! " 

Earth yawned, — he stood the centre of a cloud, 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 261 

Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was withered and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whitenss, glittered there, 
Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare : 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 
Like caverned winds the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder stroke. 

"Why is my sleep disquieted? 
Who is he that calls the dead ! 
Is it thou ! O king ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine, to-morrow, when with me, 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shall thou be, such thy son. 

" Fare thee well, but for a day ; 

Then we mix our moldering clay ; 

Thou, thy race, He pale and low, 

Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 

And the falchion by thy side 

To thy heart, thy hand shall guide, — 

Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 

Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " byron. 



THE SERPENT OF THE STILL, 

They tell me of the Egyptian asp, 

The bite of which is death ; 
The victim yielding with a gasp 

His hot and hurried breath. 
The Egyptian queen, says history, 

The reptile vile applied ; 
And in the arms of agony 

Victoriously died. 

They tell me that, in Italy, 
There is a reptile dread, 

The sting of which is agony, 
And dooms the victim dead. 



262 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But it is said that music's sound 

May soothe the poisoned part, 
Yea, heal the galling, ghastly wound, 

And save the sinking heart. 

They tell me, too, of serpents vast, 

That crawl on Afric's shore, 
And swallow men — historians past 

Tell us of one of yore : — 
But there is yet one of a kind 

More fatal than the whole, 
That stings the body and the mind ; 

Yea, it devours the soul. 

'T is found almost o'er all the earth, 

Save Turkey's wide domains ; 
And there, if e'er it had a birth, 

'T is kept in mercy's chains. 
'T is found in our own gardens gay, 

In our own flowery fields ; 
Devouring, every passing day, 

Its thousands at its meals. 

The poisonous venom withers youth, 

Blasts character and health ; 
All sink before it — hope, and truth, 

And comfort, joy, and wealth. 
It is the author, too, of shame ; 

And never fails to kill. 
Reader, dost thou desire the name ? — 

The Serpent of the Still ! milford bard. 



VIRGINIUS AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little pace aside, 
To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide, 
Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, 
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. 
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down : 
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. 
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat begat to swell, 
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, " Farewell, sweet child ! 
Farewell ! 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 263 

Oh ! how I loved my darling ! Though stern I sometimes be, 
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee ? 
And how my darling loved me ! How glad she was to hear 
My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year ! 
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown, 
And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my 

gown ! 
Now, all those things are over — yes, all thy pretty ways, 
Thy needle-work, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays ; 
And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, 
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. 
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, 
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, 
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom. 
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. 
The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way ! 
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey ! 
With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, 
Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. 
He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save 
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ; 
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow — 
Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never 

know. 
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more 

kiss ; 
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." 
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, 
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. 

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; 
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death ; 
And in another moment brake forth from one and all 
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall. 
Some with averted faces shrieking fled home amain ; 
Some ran to call a leech, and some ran to lift the slain : 
Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be found ; 
And some tore up their garments fast, and strove to stanch the 

wound. 
In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched ; for never truer blow 
That good right arm had dealt in fight against a Volscian foe. 

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sunk 

down, 
And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, 



264 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, 
And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high. 
" dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, 
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; 
And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, 
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line ! " 
So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way ; 
But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, 
And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then, with stead- 
fast feet, 
Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street. 

Then up sprang Appius Claudius — " Stop him, alive or dead ! 
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head ! " 
He looked upon his clients ; but none would work his will. 
He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled, and stood still. 
And, as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, 
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left. 
And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful home ; 
And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in 
Eome. MACAULAY. 



HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied, 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 

Loud cried the Fathers all : 
" Back, Lartius ! b,ack, Herminius ! 

Back, ere the ruin fall ! " 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder 
Fell every loosened beam, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 265 

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream : 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Home, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane : 
And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free ; 
And whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad flood behind. 
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 

"Now yield thee to our grace." 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

" Oh, Tiber ! father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! " 
So he spake, and speaking sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And, with his harness on his back, 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank ; 
23 



266 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain : 
And fast his blood was flowing ; 

And he was sore in pain, 
And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows : 
And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still ao-ain he rose. 



cr 



Never, I ween, did swimmer, 

In such an evil case, 
Struggle through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing place : 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

" Curses on him ! " quoth false Sextus ; 

" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town ! " 
" Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 

" And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands : 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands : 
And now with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. macaulay. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 267 



A ROMAN BATTLE. 

Right glad were all the Romans 

Who, in that hour of dread, 
Against great odds bare up the war 

Around Valerius dead, 
When from the south, the cheering 

Rose with a mighty swell — 
"Herminius comes ! Herminius, 

Who kept the bridge so well ! " 

Mamilius spied Herminius, 

And dashed across the way — 
"Herminius ! I have sought thee 

Through many a bloody day. 
One of us two, Herminius, 

Shall never more go home : 
I will lay on for Tusculum, 

And lay thou on for Rome ! " 

All round them paused the battle, 

While met in mortal fray 
The Roman and the Tusculan, 

The horses black and gray. 
Herminius smote Mamilius 

Through breastplate and through breast, 
And fast flowed out the purple blood 

Over the purple vest. 

Mamilius smote Herminius 

Through head-piece and through head ; 
And side by side those chiefs of pride 

Together fell down dead. 
Down fell they dead together 

In a great lake of gore : 
And still stood all who saw them fall 

While men might count a score. 

Fast, fast, with heels wild spurning, 

The dark-gray charger fled : 
He burst through ranks of fighting men, 

He sprang o'er heaps of dead. 
His bridle far out-streaming, 

His flanks all bood and foam, 



268 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He sought the southern mountains, 

The mountains of his home. 
The pass was steep and rugged, 

The wolves they howled and whined ; 
But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass, 

And he left the wolves behind. 
Through many a startled hamlet 

Thundered his flying feet ; 
He rushed through the gate of Tusculum, 

He rushed up the long white street ; 
He rushed by tower and temple, 

And paused not from his race 
Till he stood before his master's door 

In the stately market-place. 
And straightway round him gathered 

A pale and trembling crowd, 
And when they knew him cries of rage 

Brake forth, and wailing loud : 
And women rent their tresses 

For their great prince's fall ; 
And old men girt on their old swords, 

And went to man the wall. 

But like a graven image, 

Black Auster kept his place, 
And ever wistfully he looked 

Into his master's face. 
The raven mane that daily, 

With pats and fond caresses, 
The young Herminia washed and combed, 

And twined in even tresses, 
And decked with colored ribbons, 

From her own gay attire, 
Hung sadly o'er her father's corpse 

In carnage and in mire. 
Forth with a shout sprang Titus, 

And seized black Auster's rein. 
Then Aulus sware a fearful oath, 

And ran at him amain : — 
" The furies of thy brother 

With me and mine abide, 
If one of your accursed house 

Upon black Auster ride ! " 
As on an Alpine watch-tower 

From heaven comes down the flame, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 269 

Full on the neck of Titus 

The sword of Aulus came ; 
And out the red blood spouted, 

In a wide arch and tall, 
As spouts a fountain in the court 

Of some rich Capuan's hall. 
The knees of all the Latines 

Were loosened with dismay, 
When dead, on dead Herminius, 

The bravest Tarquin lay. 

And Aulus, the dictator, 

Stroked Auster's raven mane, 
With heed he looked unto the girths, 

With heed unto the rein : — 
" Now bear me well, black Auster, 

Into yon thick array ; 
And thou and I will have revenge 

For thy good lord this day." macaulay. 



THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 



It was the wild midnight — a storm was on the sky ; 
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by. 
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore ; 
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore ! 
Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield ; 
Then in silence gathered round the leader of the field ! 

All up the mountain's side, all down the woody vale, 

All by the rolling tide waved the Persian banners pale. 

And foremost from the pass, among the slumbering band, 

Sprang King Leonidas, like the lightning's living brand. 

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased its moan ; 

But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan. 

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high, 

That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy. 

A host glared on the hill ; a host glared by the bay ; 

But the Greeks rushed onward still, like leopards in their play. 

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame, 
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came ; 



270 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And still the Greek rushed on, where the fiery torrent rolled, 
Till like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 
They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet there ; 
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear. 
Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave ! 
That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave. 
Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high, 
Then hand in hand they drank, " To immortality ! " 

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb, 
With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come. 
But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge ; 
Down poured the arrows' shower, till sank the Spartan targe. 
Thus fought the Greek of old ! thus will he fight again ! 
Shall not the self-same mold bring forth the self-same men ? 

CROLY. 



SONG OF MAC MURROUGII. 

Mist darkens the mountains, night darkens the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael : 
A stranger commanded — it sunk on the land, 
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand ! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust ; 
On the hill, or the glen, if a gun should appear, 
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone, 
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last ; 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays, 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. 

high-minded Moray ! — the exiled ! — the dear ! — 
In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear, 
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, 
Like the sun^s latest flash when the tempest is nigh ! 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 271 

Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break, 
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake ? 
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye 
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake S 
'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call ; 
'T is the pibroch's shrill^summons — but not to the hall. 

'T is the summons of heroes to conquest or death, 
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath ; 
They call to the dirk, the claymore, the targe, 
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. 

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire ! 

May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire ! 

Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore, 

Or die like your sires and endure it no more ! scott. 



ELIJAH'S INTERVIEW WITH GOD. 

On Horeb's rock the prophet stood — 

The Lord before him passed ; 
A hurricane in angry mood 

Swept by him strong and fast ; 
The forest fell before its force, 
The rocks were shivered in its course, — 

God was not in the blast : 
Announcing danger, wreck, and death, 
'Twas but the whirlwind of his breath. 

It ceased. The air grew mute — a cloud 

Came, muffling up the sun ; 
When, through the mountain, deep and loud 

An earthquake thundered on ; 
The frighted eagle sprang in air, 
The wolf ran howling from his lair, — 

God was not in the storm : 
*T was but the rolling of his car, 
The trampling of his steeds from far. 



272 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

'Twas still again, and nature stood 

And calmed her ruffled frame ; 
When swift from heaven a fiery flood 

To earth devouring came ; 
Down to the depth the ocean fled ; 
The sickening sun looked wan and dead, — 

Yet God filled not the flame : 
'T was but the terror of his eye 
That lightened through the troubled sky. 

At last a voice all still and small 

Rose sweetly on the ear, 
Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all 

In heaven and earth might hear : 
It spoke of peace, it spoke of love, 
It spoke as angels speak above, — 

And God himself was there ; 
For oh ! it was a Father's voice, 

That bade the trembling world rejoice. Campbell. 



BYRON. 

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced. 
As some vast river of unfailing source, 
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 
And oped new fountains in the human heart. 
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight. 

With nature's self 
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 
At will with all her glorious majesty. 
He laid his hand upon '*• the ocean's mane." 
And played familiar with his hoary locks. 
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines ; 
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ; 
And wo ye his garland of the lightning's wing, 
In sportive twist — the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed — 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were ; 
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 273 

His brothers — younger brothers, whom he scarce 

As equals deemed. 

As some fierce comet of tremendous size, 

To which the stars did reverence as it passed ; 

So he through learning and through fancy took 

His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top 

Of fame's dread mountain sat : not soiled, and worn, 

As if he from the earth had labored up ; 

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, 

He looked, which down from higher regions came, 

And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. 

Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered much, 

And praised ; and many called his evil good. 

Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness : 

And kings to do him honor took delight. 

Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame ; 

Beyond desire, beyond ambition full, — 

He died — he died of what ? Of wretchedness. 

Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 

Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank ; drank draughts 

That common millions might have quenched — then died 

Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. pollok. 



PARRHASIUS. 

" Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip 
of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and, when 
he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and tor- 
ment, the better by his example to express the pains and passions of his 
Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint." 

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay, 
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, 
The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild 
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form 
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye 
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip, 
Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. 



274 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Bring me the captive now ! 
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift ; 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens — around me play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

" Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here — 
Quick, or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! 

Now — bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 

" So — let him writhe ! How long 
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 

Ha ! gray -haired, and so strong ! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 

"' Pity' thee! Soldo! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? 

I 'd rack thee, though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 

" Ah ! there 's a deathless name ! — 
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn — 

And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me — 
By all the fiery stars ! I 'd pluck it on me ! 

" Ay — though it bid me rifle 
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first — 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — 

" All — I would do it all — 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot ; 
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot. 

O heavens — but I appall 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 275 

Your heart, old man ! — forgive — ha ! on your lives 
Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! 
* Vain — vain — give o'er. His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
Stand back ! I '11 paint the death-dew on his brow ! 

Gods ! if he do not die 
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! 

" Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters 
Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, O Death ? 

Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him — so — he 's dead." 

How like a mountain devil in the heart 

Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once 

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 

Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 

Left in the desert for the spirit's lip, 

We look upon our splendor, and forget 

The thirst of which we perish ! willis. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band ; 



276 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

True as the steel to their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian thousands stood — 
There had the glad earth drank their blood, 

On old Platea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air, 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on : the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! " 
He woke — to die 'midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast, 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band — 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your' fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land ! " 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother, when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath ; — 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; — 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; — 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 277 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible : the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. halleck. 



ODE TO THE PASSIONS. 



When Music, heavenly maid ! was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, — 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell ; 
Exulting — trembling — raging — fainting, 
Possessed beyond the muse's painting : 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; 
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired ; 
From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — (for madness ruled the hour) — 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid ; 

And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 



278 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Next Anger rushed — his eyes, on fire, 

In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre — 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures, wan Despair — 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 

'T was sad by fits — by starts 't was wild. 

But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ! 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail, 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all her song ; 
And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 

And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung — but with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 
And with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 
And ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien ; [head. 

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And now it courted love, now, raving, called on hate. 

With eyes upraised as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
And from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet. 



DRAMATIC AND' DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 279 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul, 
And dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound : 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole, 
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, 
(Round a holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace and lonely musing,) 
In hollow murmurs — died away. 

But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 

When Cheerfulness — a nymph of healthiest hue — 
Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ! — 
The hunter's call to faun and dryad known. 

The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, 

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 

Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : — 
He with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. 

They would have thought who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,) 
And he, amidst his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings, collins. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 

'T was at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son. — 
Aloft, in awful state, 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne. 



280 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound ; 

So should desert in arms be crowned. 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. — 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 

None but the brave, deserves the fair. 
Timotheus, placed on high, 

Amid the tuneful choir, 

With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. — 

The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seat above — 
Such is the power of mighty love ! — 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 

When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world f 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound : 
"A. present deity ! " they shout around ; 
" A present deity ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. — 

With ravished ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres ! 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young ! 
The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
Sound the trumpets ! beat the drums ! 

Flushed with a purple grace 

He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath ! — he comes ! he comes ! 

Bacchus ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 

Rich the treasure ; 

Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain ! 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 281 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 

The master saw the madness rise ; 

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ! 
And, while he heaven and earth defied — 
Changed his hand and checked his pride. 

He chose a mournful muse, 

Soft pity to infuse : 
He sang Darius, great and good, 

By too severe a fate, 

Fallen ! fallen ! fallen ! fallen ! 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ! 
Deserted in his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes ! 

With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, 
Revolving, in his altered soul, 

The various turns of fate below ; 
And now and then a sigh he stole, 

And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'T was but a kindred strain to move ; 
For pity melts the soul to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures, 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honor but an empty bubble ; 
Never ending, still beginning, 

Fighting still and still destroying. 
If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh ! think it worth enjoying ; 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee ; 
Take the good the gods provide thee. — 
The many rend the skies with loud applause, 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
24 



282 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor — sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ; 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound 

Has raised up his head, 

As awaked from the dead : 
And amazed he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries — 

See the furies arise ! 

See the snakes that they rear, 

How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 

Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand I 
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And, unburied, remain 
Inglorious on the plain. 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
The princes applaud, with a furious joy ! 
And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen — fired another Troy. 

Thus long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. 
At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame. 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added strength to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 283 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 
He raised a mortal to the skies, 

She drew an angel down. r>HYDE:& 



THE FEARLESS DE COURCY. 

The fame of the fearless De Courcy 

Is boundless as the air ; 
With his own right hand he won the land 

Of Ulster, green and fair ! 
But he lieth low in a dungeon now, 

Powerless, in proud despair ; 
For false King John hath cast him in, 

And closely chained him there. 

The false King sat on his throne of state, 

'Mid knights and nobles free ; 
"Who is there," he cried, " who will cross the tide, 

And do battle in France for me ? 
There is cast on mine honor a fearful stain — 
The death of the boy who ruled Bretagne ; 
And the monarch of France, my bold suzerain, 
Hath bidden a champion for me to appear, 
My fame from this darkening blot to clear. 
Speak — is your silence the silence of fear, 
My knights and my nobles ? Frowning and pale 
Your faces grow as I tell my tale ! 
Is there not one of this knightly ring, 
Who dares to battle for his king ? " 

Oh ! out then spake the beauteous queen : 

" A captive blight I know, 
Whose loyal heart hath ever been 

Eager to meet the foe : 
Were true De Courcy here this day, 

Freed from his galling chain, 
Never, oh never, should scoffers say, 
That amid all England's rank and might, 
Their king had sought him a loyal knight, 

And sought such knight in vain ! " 
Up started the monarch, and cleared his brow, 



284 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And bade them summon De Conrcy now. 
Swiftly his messengers hasted away, 
And sought the cell where the hero lay ; 
Then bade him arise at his master's call, 
And follow their steps to the stately hall. 

He is brought before the council — 

There are chains upon his hands ; 
With his silver hair, that aged knight, 
Like a rock o'erhung with foam-wreaths white, 

Proudly and calmly stands. 
He gazes on the monarch 

With stern and star-like eye ; 
And the company muse and marvel much, 
That the light of the old man's eye is such, 

After long captivity. 
His fetters hang upon him 

Like an unheeded thing ; 
Or like a robe of purple worn 
With graceful and indifferent scorn 

By some great-hearted king. 
And strange it was to witness 

How the false King looked aside ; 
For he dared not meet his captive's eye ! 

The false King spake to his squires around, 
And his lifted voice had an angry sound : 
" Strike ye the chains from each knightly limb ! 
Who was so bold as to fetter him ? 
Warrior, believe me, no hest of mine 
Bade them to fetter a form like thine ; 
Thy sovereign knoweth thy fame too well." 
He paused, and a cloud on his dark brow fell ; 
For the knight still gazed upon him, 

And his eye was like a star ; 
And the words on the lips of the false King died, 
Like the murmuring sounds of an ebbing tide 

By the traveler heard afar. 

Not long did the heart of the false King thrill 

To the touch of passing shame, 
For it was hard, and mean, and chill ; 
As breezes sweep o'er a frozen rill, 
Leaving it cold and unbroken still, 

That feeling went and came. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 285 

And now to the knight he made reply. 

Pleading his cause right craftily ; 

Skilled was his tongue in specious use 

Of promise fair and of feigned excuse, 

Blending with words of strong appeal 

To love of fame and to loyal zeal. 

At length he ceased ; and every eye 

Gazed on De Courcy wistfully. 

**■ Speak ! " cried the king in that fearful pause ; 

"Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's cause ? " 

The old knight struck his foot on the ground, 
Like a war-horse hearing the trumpet sound ; 
And he spake with a voice of thunder, 

Solemn and fierce in tone, 
Waving his hand to the stately band 

Who stood by the monarch's throne, 
As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive 

When cheering his squadrons on— 
"I will fight for the honor of England, 

Though not for false King John 1 " 

He hath crossed the booming ocean ; 

On the shore he plants his lance ; 
And he sends his daring challenge 

Into the heart of France : — 
" Lo ! here I stand for England, 

Queen of the silver main ! 
To guard her fame, and to cleanse her name 

From slander's darkening stain ! 
Advance ! advance ! ye knights of France, 

Give answer to my call ; 
Lo ! here I stand for England, 

And I defy you all ! " 

From the east and the north came champions forth — 

They came in a knightly crowd ; 
From the south and the west each generous breast 

Throbbed at that summons proud. 
But though brave was each lord, and keen each sword, 

No warrior could withstand 
The strength of the hero-spirit 

Which nerved that old man's hand. 
He is conqueror in the battle — - 

He hath won the wreath of bay ; 



286 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To the shining crown of his fair renown 

He hath added another ray : 
He hath drawn his sword for England ; 

He hath fought for her spotless name ; 
And the isle resounds to her farthest bounds 

With her gray-haired hero's fame. 
In the ears of the craven King 

Oft must this burthen ring — 
" Though the crown be thine, and the royal line, 

He is in heart thy king ! " 



THE FIREMAN. 



Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung 
To the departed day, 
Upon whose bier 
The velvet pall of midnight had been flung, 

And nature mourned through one wide hemisphere. 
Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway, 

Save in the haunts of riotous excess ; 
And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay, 
Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness. 
When lo ! upon the startled ear, 
There broke a sound so dread and drear — 
As, like a sudden peal of thunder, 
Burst the bands of sleep asunder, 
And filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear. 

Hark ! the faithful watchman's cry 
Speaks a conflagration nigh ! — 
See ! yon glare upon the sky, 

Confirms the fearful tale. 
The deep-mouthed bells, with rapid tone, 
Combine to make the tidings known ; 
Affrighted silence now has flown, 
And sounds of terror fright the chilly gale ! 

At the first note of this discordant din, 

The gallant fireman from his slumber starts ; 
Reckless of toil and danger, if he win 
The tributary meed of grateful hearts. 
From pavement rough, or frozen ground, 
His engine's rattling wheels resound, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 287 

And soon before his eyes 
The lurid flames, with horrid glare, 

Mingled with murky vapors rise, 
In wreathy folds upon the air, 

And vail the frowning skies ! 

Sudden a shriek assails his heart — 

A female shriek, so piercing wild, 
As makes his very life-blood start : — 

" My child ! Almighty God, my child ! " 
He hears, 
And 'gainst the tottering wall, 

The ponderous ladder rears ; 
While blazing fragments round him fall, 

And crackling sounds assail his ears. 

His sinewy arm, with one rude crash, 
Hurls to the earth the opposing sash ; 

And heedless of the startling din, — 
Though smoky volumes round him roll, 
The mother's shriek has pierced his soul, 

See ! see ! he plunges in ! 
The admiring crowd, with hopes and fears, 

In breathless expectation stands, 
When lo ! the daring youth appears, 
Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers, 

Bearing the child triumphant in his hands ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gathered then 

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 

But hush ! hark ! — a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 't was but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : 



288 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing hours with flying fleet. — 

But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat. 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 

Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness : 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated — who could guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering with white lips — "The foe! they come! 
they come ! " byron. 



THE AVENGING CHILDE. 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe ; 
His horse is swift as sands that drift, — an Arab of the wild ; 
His gown is twisted round his arm, — a ghastly cheek he wears ; 
And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting knife he bears. 

Avoid that knife in battle-strife : — that weapon short and thin, 
The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 't was steeped 

therein ; 
Seven times the smith hath proved its pith, — it cuts a coulter through; 
In France the blade was fashioned, — from Spain the shaft it drew. 

He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow, — 
He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow : 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 289 

He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour knight; 
His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white. 

He found him standing by the king within the judgment-hall ; 
He rushed within the baron's ring, — he stood before them all ; 
Seven times he gazed and pondered, if he the deed should do ; [flew. 
Eight times distraught he looked and thought — then out his dagger 

He stabbed therewith at Quadros : — the king did step between ; 
He pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green : 
He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay — [thou slay 1 " 
" Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean 1 thy king why wouldst 

" Now pardon! pardon! " cried the Childe, " I stabbed not, king, at 

thee, 
But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee : 
Eight brothers were we, — in the land might none more loving be, — 
They all are slain by Quadros' hand, — they all are dead but me ! 

" Good king, I fain would wash the stain, — for vengeance is my cry; 
This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy ! " — 
But all took part with Quadros, except one lovely May, — 
Except the king's fair daughter, none word for him would say. 

She took their hands, she led them forth into the court below; 
She bade the ring be guarded, — she bade the trumpet blow; 
From lofty place for that stern race the signal she did throw: — 
" With truth and right the Lord will fight, — together let them go." 

The one is up, the other down : the hunter's knife is bare ; 

It cuts the lace beneath the face, — it cuts through beard and hair; 

Right soon that knife hath quenched his life, the head is sundered 

sheer ; 
Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fixed it on his spear. 

But when the king beholds him bring that token of his truth, 

Nor scorn nor wrath his bosom hath : — " Kneel down, thou noble 

youth ; 
Kneel down, kneel down, and kiss my crown, I am no more thy foe; 
My daughter now may pay the vow she plighted long ago ! " 

LOCKHART. 



THE POUNDER. 

The Christians have beleaguered the famous walls of Xeres, 
Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego Perez, 
And many other gentlemen, who, day succeeding day, 
Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chivalry. 
25 



290 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xeres, 
By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez. 
No knight like Don Diego, — no sword like his is found 
In all the host, to hew the boast of paynims to the ground. 

It fell one day when furiously they battled on the plain, 
Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade in twain ; 
The Moors that saw it shouted, for esquire none was near, 
To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, or spear. 

Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his eye, 
But by God's grace before his face there stood a tree full mgh x : — 
An olive-tree with branches strong, close by the wall of Xeres, — 
" Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth Don Diego Perez. 

A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive strong, 
Which o'er his head-piece brandishing, he spurs among the throng. 
God wot ! full many a pagan must in his saddle reel ! — 
What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, if once that weight 
ye feel ? 

But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the foe, 
Quoth he, " I 've seen some flail-armed man belabor barley so, 
Sure mortal mold did ne'er enfold such mastery of power ; 
Let 's call Diego Perez the pounder, from this hour." 

LOCKHART. 



THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, 

He hath summoned all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains 

around ; 
From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. 

'T is the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, 
And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra's gate ; 
In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, 
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in presence of the king. 

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true, 
The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through ; 
The deeds they 've done, the spoils they 've won, fill all with hope 

and trust, 
Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust ! 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 291 

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour, 
Make room, make room for Gazul ! — throw wide, throw wide the 

door ! 
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still ! more loudly strike the drum ! 
The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come. 

And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low, 
And next he bowed him to the Queen, and the Infantas all a-row ; 
Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw 
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. 

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, 
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand ; 
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye, 
But firmly he extends his arm, — his look is calm and high. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on, 
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejon ; 
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow, 
He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go. 

"Turn, Gazul — turn !" the people cry; the third comes up be- 
hind, 

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind ; — 

The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering 
low, 

" Now thinks this proud Alcayde to stun Harpado so 1 " 

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, 

From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill ; 

But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, 

Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, — this proud and stately steer. 

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow ; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree, 
Whereon the monster's shagged main, like billows curled, ye see. 

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde 's shock, 



292 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Now stops the drum ; close, close they come ; thrice meet, and 

thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black, — 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun ; — 
Once more advance upon his lance — once more, thou fearless one ! 

Once more, once more ! — in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel ! — 
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel ! — 
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast ! — I see, I see thee stagger, 
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcayde's dagger ! 

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in, 
And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. 
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow 
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low ! lockhart. 



ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CJESAR'S BODY. 

Friends, Romans, countrymen ! Lend me your ear. 1 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones : 
So let it be with Caesar ! Noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious. 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
For Brutus is an honorable man, 
So are they all, all honorable men, 
Come I to speak at Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept ; 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown ; 
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 293 

And sure, he is an honorable man ? 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once ; not without cause : 
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? 
O judgment ! thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason ! Bear with me : 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar ; 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 
But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world ! now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong ; 
Who, you all know, are honorable men. 

I will not do them wrong. I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 

Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here 's a parchment with the seal of Caesar ; 

I found it in his closet ; 't is his will : 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And dying, mention it within their wills, 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle : I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent, 
That day he overcame the Nervii : 
Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through ! 
See what a rent the envious Casca made ! 
Through this the well beloved Brutus stabbed, 
And as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it ! — 
This was the most unkindest cut of all ! 
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong; than traitors' arms, 
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart ; 
And in his mantle muffling up his face, 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 



294 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
Oh what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I and you, and all of us, fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason nourished over us. 
Oh ! now you weep ; and 1 perceive you feel 
The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls ! what weep you, when you but behold 
Our Caasar's vesture wounded ? Look you here ! 
Here is himself, marred as you see, by traitors. 

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny : 
They that have done this deed are honorable : 
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not, 
That made them do it ; they are wise, and honorable, 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 
But as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
That love my friend, and that they know full well 
That gave me public leave to speak of him : 
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, 
To stir men's blood. I only speak right on : 
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 
Show your sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths, 
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny. shakspeare. 



THE VENGEANCE OF MUDARA. 

To the chase goes Rodrigo, with hound and with hawk ; 
But what game he desires is revealed in his talk : 
" Oh, in vain have I slaughtered the Infants of Lara ; 
There 's an heir in his hall, — there 's the bastard Mudara — 
There 's the son of the renegade, — spawn of Mahoun : 
If I meet with Mudara, my spear brings him down/' 

While Rodrigo rides on in the heat of his wrath, 

A stripling, armed cap-a-pie, crosses his path : 

" Good morrow, young esquire." — " Good morrow, old knight." 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 295 

" Will you ride with our party, and share our delight ? '* — 
" Speak your name, courteous stranger," the stripling replied ; 
** Speak your name and your lineage, ere with you I ride." — 

" My name is Rodrigo," thus answered the knight ; 

" Of the line of old Lara, though barred from my right ; 

For the kinsman of Salas proclaims for the heir 

Of our ancestor's castles and forestries fair, 

A bastard, a renegade's offspring — Mudara — 

Whom I '11 send, if I can, to the Infants of Lara." — 

" I behold thee, disgrace to thy lineage ! — with joy 
I behold thee, thou murderer ! " answered the boy : 
" The bastard you curse, you behold him in me ; 
But his brothers' avenger that bastard shall be. 
Draw ! for I am the renegade's offspring, Mudara ; 
We shall see who inherits the life-blood of Lara ! " — 

"lam armed for the forest chase — not for the fight ; 

Let me go for my shield and my sword," cries the knight. — 

" Now the mercy you dealt to my brothers of old, 

Be the hope of that mercy the comfort you hold : 

Die, foeman to Sancha — die, traitor to Lara ! " — 

As he spake, there was blood on the spear of Mudara. 

LOCKHART. 



THE BATTLE IN HEAVEN. 

Now when fair morn orient in Heaven appeared, 
Up rose the victor- Angels, and to arms 
The matin-trumpet sung : in arms they stood 
Of golden panoply, refulgent host, 
Soon banded : others from the dawning hills 
Look round, and scouts each coast light-armed scour, 
Each quarter, to descry the distant foe, 
Where lodged, or whither fled, or if for fight 
In motion or in halt : him soon they met 
Under spread ensigns moving nigh, in slow 
But firm battalion : back with speediest sail 
Zophiel, of Cherubim the swiftest wing, 
Came flying, and in mid air aloud thus cried : 

Arm, warriors, arm for fight ; the foe at hand, 
Whom fled we thought, will save us long pursuit 



296 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

This day ; fear not his flight ; so thick a cloud 
He comes, and settled in his face I see 
Sad resolution, and secure : let each 
His adamantine coat gird well, and each 
Fit well his helm, gripe fast his orbed shield, 
Borne even or high ; for this day will pour down, 
If I conjecture right, no drizzling shower, 
But rattling storms of arrows barbed with fire. 

So warned he them, aware themselves, and soon 
In order, quit of all impediment ; 
Instant without disturb they took alarm, 
And onward moved embattled : when, behold ! 
Not distant far with heavy pace the foe 
Approaching gross and huge, in hollow cube 
Training his devilish enginery, impaled 
On every side with shadowing squadrons deep, 
To hide the fraud. At interview both stood 
Awhile ; but suddenly at head appeared 
Satan, and thus was heard commanding loud : 

Vanguard, to right and left the front unfold, 
That all may see who hate us, how we seek 
Peace and composure, and with open breast 
Stand ready to receive them if they like 
Our overture, and turn not back perverse ; 
But that I doubt ; however, witness, Heaven ! 
Heaven, witness thou anon ! while we discharge 
Freely our part : ye who appointed stand, 
Do as you have in charge, and briefly touch 
What we propound, and loud, that all may hear ! milton. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



To whom, in brief, thus Abdiel stern replied : 
Reign thou in Hell, thy kingdom ; let me serve 
In Heaven, God ever blessed, and his divine 
Behests obey, worthiest to be obeyed ; 
Yet chains in Hell, not realms, expect ; meanwhile 
From me, returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight, 
This greeting on thy impious crest receive. 

So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, 
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell 
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight, 
Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 297 

Such ruin intercept : ten paces huge 

He back recoiled ; the tenth on bended knee 

His massy spear upstaid : as if on earth 

Winds under ground, or waters forcing way, 

Sidelong had pushed a mountain from his seat, 

Half sunk with all his pines. Amazement seized 

The rebel thrones, but greater rage, to see 

Thus foiled their mightiest ; ours joy filled, and shout, 

Presage of victory, and fierce desire 

Of battle : whereat Michael bid sound 

The archangel trumpet ; through the vast of Heaven 

It sounded, and the faithful armies sung 

Hosanna to the Highest : nor stood at gaze 

The adverse legions, nor less hideous joined 

The horrid shock. Now storming fury rose, 

And clamor such as heard in Heaven till now 

Was never ; arms on armor clashing brayed 

Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 

Of brazen chariots raged ; dire was the noise 

Of conflict ; overhead the dismal hiss 

Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, 

And flying vaulted either host with fire. 

So under fiery cope together rushed 

Both battle's main, with ruinous assault 

And inextinguishable rage. All Heaven 

Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 

Had to her centre shook. What wonder ? when 

Millions of fierce encountering Angels fought 

On either side, the least of whom could wield 

These elements, and arm him with a force 

Of all their regions : how much more of power 

Army against army numberless to raise 

Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb, 

Though not destroy, their happy native seat ; 

Had not the Eternal King Omnipotent, 

From his stronghold of Heaven, high overruled 

And limited their might. milton. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 

Long time in even scale 
The battle hung ; till Satan, who that day 
Prodigious power had shown, and met in arms 



298 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

No equal, ranging through the dire attack 
Of fighting Seraphim confused, at length 
Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and felled 
Squadrons at once ; with huge two-handed sway- 
Brandished aloft, the horrid edge came down 
Wide wasting : such destruction to withstand 
He hasted, and opposed the rocky orb 
Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield, 
A vast circumference. At his approach 
The great Archangel from his warlike toil 
Surceased, and glad, as hoping here to end 
Intestine war in Heaven, the arch-foe subdued 
Or captive dragged in chains, with hostile frown 
And visage all inflamed, first thus began : 

Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt, 
Unnamed in Heaven, now plenteous as thou seest 
These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all, 
Though heaviest by just measure on thyself 
And thy adherents ! how hast thou disturbed 
Heaven's blessed peace, and into nature brought 
Misery, uncreated till the crime 
Of thy rebellion ! how hast thou instilled 
Thy malice into thousands, once upright 
And faithful, now proved false ! But think not here 
To trouble holy rest ; Heaven casts thee out 
From all her confines. Heaven, the seat of bliss, 
Brooks not the works of violence and war. 
Hence, then, and evil go with thee along, 
Thy offspring, to the place of evil, Hell ; 
Thou and thy wicked crew ! there mingle broils, 
Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom, 
Or some more sudden vengeance, winged from God, 
Precipitate thee with augmented pain. 

So spake the Prince of Angels ; to whom thus 
The Adversary : — Nor think thou with wind 
Of airy threats to awe whom yet with deeds 
Thou canst not. Hast thou turned the least of these 
To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise 
Unvanquished, easier to transact with me 
That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats 
To chase me hence ? Err not, that so shall end 
The strife which thou call'st evil, but we style 
The strife of glory ; which we mean to win, 
Or turn this Heaven itself into the Hell 
Thou fablest ; here, however, to dwell free, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 299 

If not to reign : meanwhile thy utmost force, 
And join him named Almighty to thy aid, 
I fly not, but have sought thee far and nigh. 

They ended parle, and both addressed for fight 
Unspeakable ; for who, though with the tongue 
Of Angels, can relate, or to what things 
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift 
Human imagination to such hight 
Of godlike power ? for likest gods they seemed. 
Stood they, or moved, in stature, motion, arms, 
Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven. 
Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air 
Made horrid circles ; two broad suns their shields 
Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood 
In horror : from each hand with speed retired, 
Where erst was thickest fight, the angelic throng, 
And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
Of such commotion ; such as, to set forth 
Great things by small, if, nature's concord broke, 
Among the constellations war were sprung, 
Two planets rushing from aspect malign 
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky 
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound, milton. 



SATAN IN HELL. 

The infernal Serpent ; he it was, whose guile, 
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 
The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host 
Of rebel Angels ; by whose aid, aspiring 
To set himself in glory above his peers, 
He trusted to have equaled the Most High, 
If he opposed ; and, with ambitious aim 
Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle proud, 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, 
With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell . 
In adamantine chains and penal fire. 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 



300 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Nine times the space that measures day and night 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 

Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, 

Confounded, though immortal. But his doom 

Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 

Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain, 

Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes, 

That witnessed huge affliction and dismay 

Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate : 

At once, as far as Angel's ken, he views 

The dismal situation waste and wild : 

A dungeon horrible on all sides round 

As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames 

No light ; but rather darkness visible 

Served only to discover sights of woe, 

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 

And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes 

That comes to all ; but torture without end 

Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 

With ever burning sulphur unconsumed : 

Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 

For those rebellious ; here their prison ordained 

In utter darkness, and their portion set 

As far removed from God and light of Heaven 

As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole. 

Oh, how unlike the place from whence they fell ! 

There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed 

With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 

He soon discerns ; and weltering by his side, 

One next himself in power, and next in crime, 

Long after known in Palestine, and named Beelzebub. 

MILTON. 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



Thus Satan talking to his nearest mate 
With head uplift above the waves, and eyes 
That sparkling blazed ; his other parts besides 
Prone on the flood, extended long and large 
Lay floating many a rood ; in bulk as huge, 
As whom the fables name of monstrous size, 
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on Jove ; 
Briareus or Typhon, whom the den 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 301 

By ancient Tarsus held ; or that sea-beast 

Leviathan, which God of all his works 

Created hugest that swim the ocean stream : 

Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 

His mighty stature : on each hand the flames, 

Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and rolled 

In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale. 

Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 

Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 

That felt unusual weight ; till on dry land 

He lights, if it were land that ever burned 

With solid, as the lake with liquid fire : 

And such appeared in hue, as when the force 

Of subterranean wind transports a hill 

Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side 

Of thundering -^Etna ; whose combustible 

And fueled entrails thence conceiving fire, 

Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds 

And leave a singed bottom all involved 

With stench and smoke : such resting found the sole 

Of unblessed feet. Him followed his next mate : 

Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian flood 

As gods, and by their own recovered strength, 

Not by the sufferance of supernal Power. 

Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, — 
Said then the lost Archangel, — this the seat 
That we must change for Heaven ; this mournful gloom 
For that celestial light ? Be it so ! since he, 
Who now is sovereign, can dispose and bid 
What shall be right : furthest from him is best, 
Whom reason hath equaled, force hath made supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, 
Where joy forever dwells ! Hail horrors ! hail 
Infernal world ! And thou, profoundest Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor ! one who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time : 
The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 
What matter where, if I be still the same, 
And what I should be ; all but less than he 
Whom thunder hath made greater ? Here at least 
We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built 
Here for his envy ; will not drive us hence : 
Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice, 
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell : 



302 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven ! 
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, 
The associates and copartners of our loss, 
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool, 
And call them not to share with us their part 
In this unhappy mansion ; or once more 
With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell ? 



THE SAME, CONTINUED. 



He scarce had ceased, when the superior Fiend 
Was moving toward the shore : his ponderous shield, 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
At evening from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
Of some great admiral, were but a wand, 
He walked with, to support uneasy steps 
Over the burning marie, not like those steps 
On Heaven's azure ; and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire : 
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 
His legions, Angel forms, who lay entranced 
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
In Vallambrosa, where the Etrurian shades, 
High overarched, embower ; or scattered sedge 
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed 
Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew 
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 
While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
From the safe shore their floating carcasses 
And broken chariot wheels : so thick bestrown, 
Abject and lost lay these, covering the flood, 
Under amazement of their hideous change. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 



303 



He called so loud, that all the hollow deep 

Of Hell resounded ! Princes, Potentates, 

Warriors, the flower of Heaven ! once yours, now lost, 

If such astonishment as this can seize 

Eternal Spirits ; or have ye chosen this place 

After the toil of battle to repose 

Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 

To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven ? 

Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 

To adore the Conqueror ! who now beholds 

Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood, 

With scattered arms and ensigns ; till anon 

His swift pursuers from Heaven's gates discern 

The advantage, and descending, tread us down 

Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 

Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 

Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen ! milton. 



DEFEAT OF THE REBEL ANGELS. 

So spake the Son, and into terror changed 
His countenance too severe to be beheld, 
And full of wrath bent on his enemies. 
At once the Four spread out their starry wings 
With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs 
Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with the sound 
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
He on his impious foes right onward drove, 
Gloomy as night ; under his burning wheels 
The steadfast empyrean shook throughout, 
All but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
Among them he arrived ; in his right hand 
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent 
Before him, such as in their souls infixed 
Plagues : they, astonished, all resistance lost, 
All courage : down their idle weapons dropped : 
O'er shields and helms and helmed heads he rode 
Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate, 
That wished the mountains now might be again 
Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire. 
Nor less on either side tempestuous fell 
His arrows, from the fourfold -visaged Four 



304 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels 

Distinct alike with multitude of eyes ; 

One spirit in them ruled ; and every eye 

Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 

Among the accursed, that withered all their strength, 

And of their wonted vigor left them drained, 

Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen : 

Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checked 

His thunder in mid volley ; for he meant 

Not to destroy, but root them out of Heaven : 

The overthrown he raised ; and, as a herd 

Of goats or timorous flock together thronged, 

Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued 

With terrors, and with furies, to the bounds 

And ciystal wall of Heaven ; which, opening wide, 

Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 

Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight 

Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 

Urged them behind : headlong themselves they threw 

Down from the verge of Heaven ; eternal wrath 

Burned after them to the bottomless pit. 

Hell heard the unsufferable noise, Hell saw 
Heaven running from Heaven, and would have fled 
Affrighted ; but strict Fate had cast too deep 
Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. 
Nine days they fell : confounded Chaos roared, 
And felt tenfold confusion in their fall 
Through his wild anarchy, so huge a rout 
Encumbered him with ruin : Hell at last 
Yawning received them whole, and on them closed 
Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire 
Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain. 
Disburdened Heaven rejoiced, and soon repaired 
Her mural breach, returning whence it rolled. 
Sole victor, from the expulsion of his foes, 
Messiah his triumphal chariot turned. milton. 



GABRIEL AND SATAN. 



To whom the warrior Angel soon replied : 
To say and straight unsay, pretending first 
Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy, 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 305 

Argues no leader but a liar traced, 

Satan, and couldst thou "faithful" add ? name, 

O sacred name of faithfulness profane ! 

Faithful to whom ? to thy rebellious crew ? 

Army of Fiends, fit body to fit head. 

Was this your discipline and faith engaged, 

Your military obedience, to dissolve 

Allegiance to the acknowledged Power supreme ? 

And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem 

Patron of liberty, who more than thou 

Once fawned, and cringed, and servilely adored 

Heaven's awful Monarch ? wherefore, but in hope 

To dispossess him, and thyself to reign ? 

But mark what I arede thee now, avaunt ! 

Fly thither whence thou fledst ! If from this hour 

Within these hallowed limits thou appear, 

Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chained, 

And seal thee so as henceforth not to scorn 

The facile gates of Hell too slightly barred. 

So threatened he ; but Satan to no threats 

Gave heed, but waxing more in rage replied 

Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, 
Proud limitary Cherub ! but ere then 
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel 
From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King 
Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, 
Used to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels 
In progress through the road of Heaven star-paved. 

While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright 
Turned fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns 
Their phalanx, and began to hem him round 
With ported spears, as thick as when a field 
Of Ceres ripe for harvest waving bends 
Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind 
Sways them ; the careful ploughman doubting stands 
Lest on the threshing-floor his hopeless sheaves 
Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarmed, 
Collecting all his might, dilated stood 
Like Teneriffe or Atlas, unremoved : 
His stature reached the sky, and on his crest 
Sat Horror plumed ; nor wanted in his grasp 
What seemed both spear and shield : 
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the Fiend : 
Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine ; 
Neither our own, but given : what folly then 
26 



306 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To boast what arms can do ? since thine no more 
Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now 
To trample thee as mire : for proof look up, 
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign ; 
Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak 
If thou resist. The Fiend looked up, and knew 
His mounted scale aloft : nor more ; but fled 
Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. 

MILTON. 



PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 

'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 

Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood : 

He comes — their leader comes ! the man of God 

O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, 

And onward treads. The circling waves retreat, 

In hoarse, deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 

And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 

The hard wet sand, and coral hills below. 

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, 

Down, down they pass — a steep, and slippery dell. 

Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurled, 

The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; 

And flowers, that blush beneath the ocean green, 

And caves, the sea-calves' low-roofed haunts, are seen. 

Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; 

The beetling waters storm above their head ; 

While far behind, retires the sinking day, 

And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, 

Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night ; 

Still, in their van, along that dreadful road, 

Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God. 

Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave 

On the long mirror of the rosy wave ; 

While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply, 

Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye. 

To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train 

Invoke, for light, their monster-gods in vain : 

Clouds heaped on clouds, their struggling sight confine, 

And tenfold darkness broods above their line. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 307 

Yet on they press, by reckless vengeance led, 

And range, unconscious, through the ocean's bed, 

Till midway now — that strange and fiery Form 

Showed his dread visage, lightning through the storm ; 

With withering splendor blasted all their might, [flight. 

And brake their chariot-wheels, and marred their coursers' 

" Fly, Misraim, fly ! " The ravenous floods they see, 

And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 

" Fly, Misraim, fly ! " From Edom's coral strand, 

Again the prophet stretched his dreadful wand : 

With one wild crash, the thundering waters sweep, 

And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep : — 

Yet o'er these lonely waves such murmurs past, 

As mortal wailing swelled the nightly blast ; 

And strange, and sad, the whispering breezes bore 

The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. heber. 



KING HENRY TO HIS SON. 

For all the world, 
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then 
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg ; 
And even as I was then, is Percy now. 
Now by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, 
He hath more worthy interest to the state, 
Than thou, the shadow of succession : 
For, of no right, nor color like to right, 
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm ; 
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws ; 
And, being no more in debt to years than thou, 
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on, 
To bloody battles, and to bruising arms. 
What never-dying honor hath he got 
Against renowned Douglas ; whose high deeds, 
Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms, 
Holds from all soldiers chief majority, 
And military title capital, 

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ ! 
Thrice hath this Hotspur Mars in swathing clothes, 
This infant warrior in his enterprises, 
Discomfited great Douglas : ta'en him once, 
Enlarged him, and made a friend of him, 



THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up, 

And shake the peace and safety of our throne. 

And what say you to this ? Percy, Northumberland, 

The archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer, 

Capitulate against us, and are up. 

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ? 

Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, 

Which art my nearest and dearest enemy ? 

Thou that art like enough, — through vassal fear, 

Base inclination, and the start of spleen, — 

To fight against me under Percy's pay, 

To dog his heels, and courtesy at his frowns, 

To show how much degenerate thou art. shakspeare. 



MOONLIGHT AND MUSIC. 



How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : Look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
There 's not the smallest orb, which thou beholdest, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 
And draw her home with music. 

Do thou but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandied colts, 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 
By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods 
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
But music for the time doth change his nature. 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 309 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus : 

Let no such man be trusted. shakspeare. 



LOVE'S ECSTASY. 



How all the other passions fleet to air, 
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 
And shudd'ring fear, and green-eyed jealousy. 

love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, 

In measure rein thy joy, scant this excess ; 

1 feel too much thy blessing, make it less, 
For fear I surfeit ! 

What find I here ? 
Fair Portia's counterfeit ? What demi-god 
Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 
Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips, 
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends : here in her hairs 
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes, — 
How could he see to do them ? having made one, 
Methinks, it should have power to steal both his 
And leave itself unfurnished. Yet look, how far 
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow, 
In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
Doth limp behind the substance. shakspeare. 



OBERON'S VISION. 



My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest 
Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back, 
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 



310 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; 

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 

To hear the sea-maid's music. 

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 

Cupid all armed : a certain aim he took 

At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : 

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 

Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon : 

And the imperial votress passed on 

In maiden meditation, fancy free ; 

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell : 

It fell upon a little western flower, 

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, — 

And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 

Fetch me that flower ; the herb I showed thee once : 

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, 

Will make or man or woman madly doat 

Upon the next live creature that it sees. 

Fetch me this herb : and be thou here again, 

Ere the leviathan can swim a league. shakspeare. 



PROSPERO. 

You do look, my son, in a moved sort, 
As if you were dismayed ; be cheerful, sir ; 
Our revels now are ended ; these our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air ; 
And like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves ; 
And ye that on the sands, with printless foot 



DRAMATIC AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 311 

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 

When he comes back ; you demi-puppets, that 

By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, 

Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime 

Is to make midnight mushrooms ; that rejoice 

To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid 

(Weak masters though you be,) I have bedimmed 

The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, 

And twixt the green sea and the azured vault 

Set roaring war ; to the dread rattling thunder 

Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 

With his own bolt ; the strong based promontory 

Have I made shake ; and by the spurs plucked up 

The pine and cedar ; graves, at my command, 

Have waked their sleepers — oped, and let them forth 

By my so potent art. But this rough magic 

I here abjure : and when I have required 

Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,) 

To work mine end upon their senses, that 

This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff, 

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 

And deeper than did ever plummet sound, 

I '11 drown my book. shakspeare. 



MARIUS IN PRISON. 



The peculiar sublimity of the Roman mind does not express 
itself, nor is it at all to be sought in their poetry. Poetry, 
according to the Roman ideal of it, was not an adequate organ 
for the grander movements of the national mind. Roman sub- 
limity must be looked for in Roman acts, and in Roman sayings. 
Where, again, will you find a more adequate expression of the 
Roman majesty, than in the saying of Trajan: — Imperatorem 
oportere stantem mori — that Caesar ought to die standing ; a 
speech of imperatorial grandeur ! Implying that he, who was 
"the foremost man of all this world," — and, in regard to all 
other nations, the representative of his own, should express its 
characteristic virtue in his farewell act — should die in procinctu — 
and should meet the last enemy as the first, with a Roman 
countenance and in a soldier's attitude. If this had an impera- 
torial — what follows had a consular majesty, and is almost the 
grandest story upon record. 



312 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Marius, the man who rose to be seven times consul, was in a 
dungeon, and a slave was sent in with commission to put him 
to death. These were the persons, — the two extremities of 
exalted and forlorn humanity, its vanward and its rearward 
man, a Roman consul and an abject slave. But their natural 
relations to each other were, by the caprice of fortune, mon- 
strously inverted : the consul was in chains ; the slave was for a 
moment the arbiter of his fate. By what spells, what magic, 
did Marius reinstate himself in his natural prerogatives ? By 
what marvels drawn from heaven or from earth, did he, in the 
twinkling of an eye, again invest himself with the purple, and 
place between himself and his assassin a host of shadowy lictors ? 
By the mere blank supremacy of great minds over weak ones. 
He fascinated the slave, as a rattlesnake does a bird. Standing 
"like Teneriffe," he smote him with his eye, and said, " Tune, 
homo, audes occidere C Marium? " — Dost thou, fellow, presume 
to kill Caius Marius ? Whereat, the reptile, quaking under the 
voice, nor daring to affront the consular eye, sank gently to the 
ground — turned round upon his hands and feet — and, crawling 
out of the prison like any other vermin, left Marius standing in 
solitude as steadfast and immovable as the capitol. 

DE QUINCY. 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 313 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION 



SOLILOQUY OF MANFRED. 

The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I recked of tortured me : 
I lean no more on superhuman aid ; 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past.be gulfed in darkness, 
It is not of my search. My mother earth ! 
And thou, fresh-breaking day ; and you, ye mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That open'st over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindle as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest forever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live, — 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre ; for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. — Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, (An eagle passes.) 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
27 



314 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER, 

How glorious in its action and itself ! 

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 

To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make 

A conflict of its elements, and breathe 

The breath of degradation and of pride, 

Contending with low wants and lofty will 

Till our mortality predominates, 

And men are — what they name not to themselves, 

And trust not to each other. byron. 



KING RICHARD'S MEDITATION ON KINGS. 

No matter where ; of comfort no more speak ; 
Let 's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 
Let 's choose executors, and talk of wills : 
And yet not so, — for what can we bequeath, 
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? 
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, 
And nothing can we call our own, but death ; 
And that small model of the barren earth, 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings : — 
How some have been deposed, some slain in war ; 
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed ; 
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed ; 
All murdered : — For within the hollow crown, 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 
Keeps Death his court : and there the antic sits, 
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; 
Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks ; 
Infusing him with self and vain conceit, — 
As if this flesh, which walls about our life, 
Were brass impregnable ; and, humored thus, 
Comes at the last, and with a little pin 
Bores through his castle wall, and — farewell, king ! 
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood 
With solemn reverence ; throw away respect, 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION, 315 

Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, 

For you have but mistook me all this while : 

I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, 

Need friends : — subjected thus, 

How can you say to me — I am a king ? shakspeare. 



KING RICHARD'S LAMENT. 

What must the king do now ? 
The king shall do it. Must he be deposed ? 
The king shall be contented : must he lose 
The name of king ? o' God's name, let it go : 
I '11 give my jewels, for a set of beads ; 
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage ; 
My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown ; 
My figured goblets, for a dish of wood ; 
My sceptre, for a palmer's walking staff ; 
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints ; 
And my large kingdom, for a little grave, 
A little, little grave, an obscure grave : — 
Or I '11 be buried in the king's highway, 
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet 
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head : 
For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live ; 
And, buried once, why not upon my head ? — 
Aumerle, thou weep'st ; my tender-hearted cousin ! — 
We '11 make foul weather with despised tears ; 
Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer corn, 
And make a dearth in this revolting land. 
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, 
And make some pretty match with shedding tears ? 
As thus : — to drop them still upon one place 
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves 
Within the earth ; and, therein laid — " There lie 
Two kinsmen, digged their graves with weeping eyes ? " 
Would not this ill do well ? — Well, well, I see 
I talk but idly, and you mock at me. — 
Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland, 
What says King Bolingbroke ! will his majesty 
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die ? 
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says — ay. shakspeare. 



316 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



ROMEO IN THE GARDEN. 



But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ! 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. 
Be not her maid, since she is envious : 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 
And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — 
It is my lady : 0, it is my love : 

that she knew she were ! — 

She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? 
Her eye discourses ; I will answer it. — 

1 am too bold ; 't is not to me she speaks : 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! 

She speaks : — 
speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. shakspeare. 



CLIFFORD'S SOLILOQUY. 



Shame and confusion ! all is on the rout ; 
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 
Where it should guard. War, thou son of hell, 
Whom angry heavens do make their minister, 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 317 

Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part 

Hot coals of vengeance ! — Let no soldier fly ; 

He that is truly dedicate to war, 

Hath no self-love ; nor he that loves himself 

Hath not essentially, but by circumstance, 

The name of valor. — let the vile world end, 

( Seeing his father dead. ) 
And the premised flames of the last day 
Knit earth and heaven together ! 
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, 
Particularities and petty sounds 
To cease ! — Wast thou ordained, dear father, 
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve 
The silver livery of advised age ; 
And in thy reverence, and thy chair-days, thus 
To die in ruffian battle ? — Even at this sight, 
My heart is turned to stone : and, while 't is mine, 
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares ; 
No more will I their babes : tears virginal 
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire ; 
And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, 
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. 
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity : 
Meet I an infant of the house of York, 
Into as many gobbets will I cut it, 
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did : 
In cruelty will I seek out my fame. 
Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house ; 

( Taking up the body. ) 
As did ./Eneas old Anchises bear, 
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders ; 
But then iEneas bare a living load, 
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. shakspeare. 



GLOSTER'S SOLILOQUY. 



What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 
Sink in the ground ? I thought it would have mounted. 
See, how my sword weeps for the poor king's death ! 
may such purple tears be always shed 
From those that wish the downfall of our house ! — 
If any spark of life be yet remaining, 



318 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Down, down to hell ; and say — I sent thee thither, 

I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. — 

Indeed, 'tis true, that Henry told me of; 

For I have often heard my mother say, 

I came into the world with my legs forward : 

Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, 

And seek their ruin that usurped our right ? 

The midwife wondered ; and the women cried 

" 0, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth ! " 

And so I was ; which plainly signified 

That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. 

Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, 

Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. 

I have no brother, I am like no brother : 

And this word — love, which gray-beards call divine, 

Be resident in men like one another, 

And not in me ; I am myself alone. ■ — 

Clarence, beware ; thou keep'st me from the light ; 

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee : 

For I will buz abroad such prophecies, 

That Edward shall be fearful of his life ; 

And then, to purge his fear, I '11 be thy death. 

King Henry, and the prince, his son, are gone : 

Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest : 

Counting myself but bad, till I be best. — 

I '11 throw thy body in another room, 

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. shakspeare. 



RICHARD III, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH. 

'T is now the dead of night, and half the world 
Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung ; 
Yet I, (so coy a dame is sleep to me,) 
With all the weary courtship of 
My care-tired thoughts, can 't win her to my bed, 
Though e'en the stars do wink, as 't were with overwatching. 
I '11 forth and walk a while. The air 's refreshing, 
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay 
Gives it a sweet and wholesome odor. — 
How awful is this gloom ! And hark ! from camp to camp 
The hum of either army stilly sounds, 
That the fixed sentinels almost receive 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 319 

The secret whispers of each others' watch : 

Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighings, 

Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark ! from the tents 

The armorers, accomplishing the knights, 

With clink of hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation ; while some, 

Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch, 

With patience sit, and inly ruminate 

The morning's danger. By yon Heaven, my stern 

Impatience chides this tardy -gaited night, 

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp 

So tediously away. I '11 to my couch, 

And once more try to sleep her into morning. shakspeare. 



THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 



Give me another horse, — bind up my wounds ! — 
Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ; I did but dream. 

coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! 
The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. 
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
What do I fear ? myself ? there 's none else by : 
Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. 

Is there a murderer here ? No ; — yes ; I am : 
Then fly, — what, from myself ? Great reason : why 
Lest I revenge. What ? Myself on myself ? 

1 love myself. Wherefore ? for any good, 
That I myself have done unto myself ? 
Oh no : alas, I rather hate myself, 

For hateful deeds committed by myself. 
I am a villain : yet I lie, I am not. 
Fool, of thyself speak well : — fool, do not flatter. 
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
And every tongue brings in a several tale, 
And every tale condemns me for a villain. 
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree ; 
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree ; 
All several sins, all used in each degree, 
Throng to the bar, crying all, — Guilty ! guilty ! 
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me ; 
And, if I die, no soul will pity me : — 
Nay, wherefore should they ? since that I myself 



320 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Find in myself no pity to myself. 
Methought the souls of all that I had murdered 
Came to my tent ; and every one did threat 
To-morrow 's vengeance on the head of Richard. 

SHAK3PEARE. 



CLARENCE'S DREAM. 



Oh, I have passed a miserable night — 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night, 
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days ; 
So full of dismal terror was the time. 
Methought that I had broken from the tower, 
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy, 
And, in my company, my brother Gloster ; 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 
Upon the hatches : thence we looked toward England, 
And cited up a thousand heavy times, 
During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
That had befallen us. As we paced along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and in falling, 
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard 
Into the tumbling billows of the maim 

Lord ! methought what pain it was to drown ; 
What dreadful noise of water in my ears : 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 

A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon ; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 

All scattered in the bottom of the sea : 

Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept 

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, 

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. 

Oh, then began the tempest to my soul ! 

1 passed, methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger soul 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 321 

Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 

Who cried aloud, — " What scourge for perjury 

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" 

And so he vanished. Then came wandering by 

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 

Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out aloud, — 

" Clarence is come — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 

That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury ; 

Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments ! " 

With that, methought a legion of foul fiends 

Environed me, and howled in mine ears 

Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 

I trembling waked, and, for a season after, 

Could not believe but that I was in hell : 

Such terrible impression made my dream. shakspeare. 



HOTSPUR'S SOLILOQUY ON THE CONTENTS OF A LETTER. 

"But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to 
be there, in respect of the love I bear your house." — He could be 
contented to be there ! Why is he not then ? — In respect of 
the love he bears our house ! He shows in this, he loves his 
own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some 
more. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous." — Why, 
that 's certain : 't is dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to 
drink : but I tell you, my lord Fool, out of this nettle danger, 
we pluck the flower safety. " The purpose you undertake 
is dangerous ; the friends you have named, uncertain ; the 
time itself, unsorted ; and your whole plot too light for the 
counterpoise of so great an opposition." — Say you so, say you 
so : I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and 
you lie. What a lack-brain is this ! Our plot is a good plot as 
ever was laid ; our friends, true and constant ; a good plot, good 
friends, and full of expectation ; an excellent plot, very good 
friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this ! Why, my lord 
of York commends the plot, and the general course of the action. 
By this hand, if I Avere now by this rascal I could brain him 
with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and my- 
self; Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen 
Glendower ? Is there not, besides, the Douglas ? Have I not 
all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next 
month ? and are there not some of them set forward already ? 



322 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

What a pagan rascal is this ! an infidel ! — Ha ! you shall see 
now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the king, 
and lay open all our proceedings. Oh ! I could divide myself 
and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with 
so honorable an action ! — Hang him ! let him tell the king. 
We are prepared, I will set forward to-night. shakspeare. 



KING EDWARD'S LAMENT OVER CLARENCE. 

Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, 
And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave ? 
My brother killed no man, his fault was thought, 
And yet his punishment was bitter death. 
Who sued to me for him ? who, in my wrath, 
Kneeled at my feet, and bade me be advised ? 
Who spoke of brotherhood ? who spoke of love ? 
Who told me, how the poor soul did forsake 
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me ? 
Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, 
When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, 
And said, "Dear brother, live, and be a king? " 
Who told me, when we both lay in the field, 
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me 
Even in his garments ; and did give himself, 
All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night ? 
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath 
Sinfully plucked, and not a man of you 
Had so much grace to put it in my mind. 
But when your carters, or your waiting vassals, 
Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced 
The precious image of our dear Redeemer, 
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; 
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you : — 
But for my brother, not a man would speak, 
NTor I (ungracious) speak unto myself 
For him, poor soul. — The proudest of you all 
Have been beholden to him in his life ; 
Yet none of you would once plead for his life. 
O God ! I fear thy justice will take hold 
On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this. 
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Oh, 
Poor Clarence! shakspeare 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 323 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. 

To be, or not to be, that is the question ; — 
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them ? To die, — to sleep, — 
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to : 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep : — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause. There 's the respect 
That makes calamity of so long life ; 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
But that the dread of something after death, — 
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
No traveler returns, — puzzles the will, 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of ? 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. shakspeare. 



SOLILOQUY OF HAMLET'S UNCLE. 

Oh, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven 
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon it ! 
A brother's murder ! — Pray I cannot, 



324 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Though, inclination be as sharp as 't will, 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent : 

And like a man to double business bound, 

I stand in pause where I shall first begin, 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself Avith brother's blood ; 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 

To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy, 

But to confront the visage of offense ? 

And what 's in prayer, but this twofold force, 

To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, 

Or pardoned, being down ? — Then I '11 look up : 

My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer 

Can serve my turn ? " Forgive me my foul murder !" 

That cannot be ; since I am still possessed 

Of those effects for which I did the murder, 

My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 

May one be pardoned, and retain the offense ? 

In the corrupted currents of this world, 

Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice ; 

And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the law : but 't is not so above ; 

There, is no shuffling ; there, the action lies 

In his true nature ; and we ourselves compelled, 

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then ? — what rests ? 

Try what repentance can : what can it not ? 

Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ? 

Oh wretched state ! oh bosom, black as death ! 

Oh limed soul, that struggling to be free, 

Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make assay ! 

Bow, stubborn knees ; and heart, with strings of steel, 

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! 

All may be well. shakspeare. 



THE DYING HORSE. 



Heaven ! what enormous strength does death possess 
How muscular the giant's arm must be 
To grasp that strong-boned horse, and, spite of all 
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth ! 
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain, 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 325 

His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire ! 

Oh ! how he glares ! — and hark ! methinks I hear 

His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins ; 

How still he 's now ; — how fiery hot, — how cold ! 

How terrible, — how lifeless ! — all within 

A few brief moments ! My reason staggers ! 

Philosophy, thou poor enlightened dotard, 

Who canst assign for everything a cause, 

Here take thy stand beside me, and explain 

This hidden mystery. Bring with thee 

The headstrong atheist, who laughs at heaven, 

And impiously ascribes events to chance, 

To help to solve this wonderful enigma ! 

First, tell me, ye proud, haughty reasoners, 

Where the vast strength this creature late possessed 

Has fled to ? How the bright sparkling fire, 

Which flashed but now from these dim rayless eyes, 

Has been extinguished ? — Oh, he 's dead ! you say — 

I know it well : — but how, and by what means ? 

What ! — not a word ! — I ask you once again ; 

How comes it that the wondrous essence, 

Which gave such vigor to these strong-nerved limbs, 

Has leapt from its inclosure, and compelled 

This noble workmanship of nature thus 

To sink into a cold inactive clod ? blackett. 



ANTONY OVER THE DEAD BODY OF CESAR. 

O mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low ! 
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs spoils, 
Shrunk to his little measure ? — Fare thee well. 
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, 
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank ; 
If I myself, there is no hour so fit 
As Caesar's death-hour ; nor no instrument 
Of half that worth, as those your swords, made rich 
With the most noble blood of all this world. 
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, 
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, 
Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, 
I shall not find myself so apt to die ; 
No place will please me so, no mean of death, 



326 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, 
The choice and master spirits of this age. 

That I did love thee, Caesar, oh ! 't is true ; 
If then thy spirit look upon us now, 
Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death, 
To see thy Antony making his peace, 
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, 
Most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? 
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, 
It would become me better, than to close 
In terms of friendship with thine enemies. 
Pardon me, Julius ! — here wast thou bayed, brave heart, 
Here didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, 
Signed in thy spoil, and crimsoned in thy lethe. 

pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth, 
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers ! 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophecy, — 
Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips, 
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, — 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy : 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
And dreadful objects so familiar, 
That mothers shall but smile when they behold 
Their infants quartered with the hands of war ; 
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds : 
And Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge, 
With Ate by his side, come hot from hell, 
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 
Cry, " Havoc ! " and let slip the dogs of war ; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial. shakspeare. 



A SOLILOQUY FROM HAMLET. 

0, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 327 

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! God ! God ! 
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 

Fie on 't ! fie ! 't is an unweeded garden, 
That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature 
Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ! — nay, not so much, not two. 
So excellent a king ; that was, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 
Must I remember ? And yet, within a month, — 
Let me not think on 't ; — Frailty, thy name is woman ! 
A little month ; or ere those shoes were old, 
With which she followed my poor father's body, 
Like Mobe, all tears ; — why she, even she, — 
heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 
Would have mourned longer, — married with my uncle. 
My father's brother ; but no more like my father, 
Than I to Hercules : 
It is not, nor it cannot come to good ,* 
But break, my heart ; for I must hold my tongue ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 



HAMLET ON HIS OWN IRRESOLUTION. 

Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! 
Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit, 
That from her working, all his visage wann'd ; 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in 's aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit ? And all for nothing ! 
For Hecuba ! 

What 's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 
That he should weep for her ? What would he do, 
Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears, 
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech : 
Make mad the guilty, and appall the free, 
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, 



328 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The very faculties of eyes and ears. 

Yet I, 

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, 

Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, 

And can say nothing ; no, not for a king, 

Upon whose property and most dear life 

A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward ? 

Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? 

Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face ? 

Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i' the throat, 

As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ? 

Ha! 

Why, I should take it ; for it cannot be, 

But I am pigeon-livered, and lack gall - ■ 

To make oppression bitter, or, ere this, 

I should have fatted all the region kites 

With this slave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain ! 

Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain ! 

Why, what an ass am I ? This is most brave ; 

That I, the son of a dear father murdered, 

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, 

Must, like a fool, unpack my heart with words, — 

A scullion ! 

Fie upon 't ! foh ! About my brains ! Humph, I have heard 

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, 

Have, by the very cunning of the scene, 

Been struck so to the soul, that presently 

They have proclaimed their malefactions ; 

For murder, though it hath no tongue, will speak 

With most miraculous organ. I '11 have these players 

Play something like the murder of my father, 

Before mine uncle ; I '11 observe his looks ; 

I '11 tent him to the quick ; if he do blench, 

I know my course. The spirit, that I have seen, 

May be a devil, and the devil hath power 

To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and, perhaps, 

Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, 

(As he is very potent with such spirits,) 

Abuses me to damn me ; I '11 have grounds 

More relative than this. The play 's the thing, 

Wherein I '11 catch the conscience of the king. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION, 329 



LADY MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY. 

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 
What thou art promised. — Yet do I fear thy nature ; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great ; 
Art not without ambition ; but without 
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, 
That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, 
And yet wouldst wrongly win ; thou 'dst have, great Glamis, 
That which cries, " Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; 
And that which rather thou dost fear to do, 
Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, 
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ; 
And chastise with the valor of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crowned withal. 

The raven himself is hoarse, 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here ; 
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood, 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse ; 
That no compunctuous visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect, and it ! Come, you murd'ring ministers, 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night, 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell ! 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes ; 
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
To cry, " Hold ! hold ! " shakspeare. 



CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

It must be so — Plato, thou reason' st well ! — 
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
28 



330 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 

'T is the divinity that stirs within us : 

'T is heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it, — 

Here will I hold. If there 's a Power above us, 

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 

Through all her works, ) he must delight in virtue ; 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

But when or where ? This world — was made for Caesar. 

I 'm weary of conjectures — this must end them — 

(Laying his hand on his siuord.) 
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. — 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. addison. 



LADY RANDOLPH'S SOLILOQUY. 

Ye woods and wilds ! whose melancholy gloom 
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth 
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart — 
Farewell awhile. I will not leave you long ; 
For, in your shades, I deem some spirit dwells, 
Who, from the chiding stream, or groaning oak, 
Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan. 
Douglas ! Douglas ! if departed ghosts 
Are e'er permitted to review this world, 
Within the circle of that wood thou art ; 
And, with the passion of immortals, hear'st 
My lamentation ; hear'st thy wretched wife 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 331 

Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. 

My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn, 

Who perished with thee on this fatal day : 

To thee I lift my voice ; to thee address 

The 'plaint, which mortal ear has never heard. 

Oh ! disregard me not. Though I am called 

Another's now, my heart is wholly thine : 

Incapable of change, affection lies 

Buried, my Douglas, in thy bloody grave. home. 



OTHELLO'S VENGEFUL SORROW. 

now, forever, 
Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content ! 
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
That make ambition virtue ! 0, farewell ! 
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill tramp, 
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
The royal banner, and all quality, 
Pride, pomp, and circumstance, of glorious war ! 
And you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit ; 
Farewell ! Othello's occupation 's gone ! — 

O, that the slave had forty thousand lives : 
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge ! 
Now do I see 't is true. — Look here, Iago ; 
All my fond love thus I do blow to heaven : 
'T is gone. — 

Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! 
Yield up, O love, thy crown, and hearted throne, 
To tyrannous hate ! swell, bosom, with thy fraught, 
For 't is of aspics' tongues ! — 

Like to the Pontic sea, 
Whose icy current and compulsive course 
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 
To the Propontic and the Hellespont ; 
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, 
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love, 
Till that a capable and wide revenge 
Swallow them up. — Now, by yond' marble heaven, 
In the due reverence of a sacred vow 
I here engage my words. shakspeare. 



332 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



MACBETH MEDITATING THE MURDER OF DUNCAN. 

If it were done, when 't is done, then 't were well 
It were done quickly. If the assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
We 'd jump the life to come. — But in these cases, 
We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor : this even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice 
To our own lips. He 's here in double trust : 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
Strong both against the deed : then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trump et-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off : 
And pity, like a naked new-born babe, 
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
Shall blow the horrid deed to every eye, 
That tears shall drown the wind. shakspeare. 



A SOLILOQUY OF MACBETH. 

Is this a dagger, which I see before me, 
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee 
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind ; a false creation, 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 
I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As this which now I draw. 
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going ; 
And such an instrument I was to use. 
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 333 

Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 

And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 

Which was not so before. — There 's no such thing : 

It is the bloody business, which informs 

Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one half world 

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 

The curtained sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates 

Pale Hecate's offerings ; and withered Murder, 

Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, 

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 

With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design 

Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm set earth, 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, 

Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat, he lives ; 

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 

(A bell rings.) 
I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me ; 
Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. shakspeare. 



SHYLOCK'S SOLILOQUY AND ADDRESS. 

How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him, for he is a Christian ; 
But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest : cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him ! — 

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys, and my usances : 
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug ; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe : 
You call me — misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 



334 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 

And all for use of that which is mine own. 

Well then, it now appears, you need my help : 

Go to then ; you come to me, and you say, 

" Shylock, we would have moneys ;" you say so : 

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, 

And foot me, as you spur a stranger cur 

Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 

What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 

" Hath a dog money ? is it possible 

A cur can lend three thousand ducats ?" or 

Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman's key, 

With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness, 

Say this, — 

" Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last : 

You spurned me such a day ; another time 

You called me — dog ; and for these courtesies 

I '11 lend you thus much moneys." shakspeare. 



FALSTAFF ON SACK. 



A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends 
me into the brain ; dries me there all the foolish, and dull, and 
crudy vapors which environ it : makes it apprehensive, quick, 
forgetive, full of nimble, fiery and delectable shapes ; which 
delivered o'er to the voice, (the tongue,) which is the birth, 
becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent 
sherris is, — the wanning of the blood ; which, before cold and 
settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of 
pusillanimity and cowardice : but the sherris warms it, and 
makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It 
illumineth the face ; which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the 
rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm : and then the vital com- 
moners, and inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, 
the heart ; who, great, and puffed up with this retinue, doth any 
deed of courage ; and this valor comes of sherris. So that skill 
in the weapon is nothing, without sack ; for that sets it a-work ; 
and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil ; till sack 
commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it, that 
Prince Harry is valiant : for the cold blood he did naturally 
inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, 
manured, husbanded, and tilled, with excellent endeavor of 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION. 335 

drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris ; that he is 
become very hot, and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the 
first human principle I would teach them, should be — to for- 
swear thin potations, and addict themselves to sack. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



SOLILOQUY ON CHARACTER. 



As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I 
am boy to them all three : but all they three, though they 
would serve me, could not be man to me ; for, indeed, three 
such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, — he is 
white-livered, and red-faced ; by the means whereof, 'a faces it 
out, but fights not. For Pistol, — he hath a killing tongue, and 
a quiet sword ; by the means whereof, 'a breaks words, and 
keeps whole weapons. For Nym, — he hath heard, that men 
of few words are the best men ; and therefore he scorns to say 
his prayers, lest 'a should be thought a coward ; but his few 
bad words are matched with as few good deeds ; for 'a never 
broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post, 
when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it — 
purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case ; bore it twelve leagues, 
and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are 
sworn brothers in filching ; and in Calais they stole a fire- 
shovel ; I knew, by that piece of service, the men would carry 
coals. They would have me as familiar with men's pockets, as 
their gloves or their handkerchiefs ; which makes much against 
my manhood, if I should take from another's pocket, to put into 
mine ; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave 
them, and seek some better service : their villainy goes against 
my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



SOLILOQUY ON A DOG. 



When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you, 
it goes hard : one that I brought up of a puppy ; one that I 
saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers 
and sisters went to it ! I have taught him — even as one would 
say precisely, Thus I would teach a dog. I was sent to deliver 
him, as a present to mistress Silvia, from my master ; and I 
came no sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her 



336 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

trencher, and steals her capon's leg. Oh, 't is a foul thing, when 
a cur cannot keep himself in all companies ! I would have, as 
one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to 
be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit 
than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he 
had been hanged for 't ; sure as I live, he had suffered for 't : 
you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of 
three or four gentlemen-like dogs, under the duke's table : he 
had not been there awhile, but all the chamber smelt him. 
" Out with the dog," says one; "What cur is that?" says 
another ; "Whip him out," says the third ; " Hang him up," 
says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell be- 
fore, knew it was Crab ; and goes me to the fellow that whips 
the dogs : "Friend," quoth I, "you mean to whip the dog?" 
" Ay, marry, do I," quoth he. " You do him the more wrong," 
quoth I. He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the 
chamber. How many masters would do this for their servant ? 
Nay, I '11 be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he 
hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed : I have stood on 
the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered 
for 't : thou think'st not of this now. shakspeare. 



FALSTAFF'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS SOLDIERS. 

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I 
have misused the king's press outrageously. I have got in ex- 
change of an hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd 
pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen's 
sons ; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as have been 
asked twice on the banns ; such a commodity of warm slaves, 
as had as lief hear the devil as a drum ; such as fear the report 
of a culverin worse than a struck deer or a hurt wild duck. I 
press me none but such toasts in butter, with hearts in their 
breasts no bigger than pins' heads ; and they bought out their 
services ; and now my whole charge consists of slaves as ragged 
as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked 
his sores, discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger 
brothers, revolted tapsters, and hostlers trade-fallen, the cankers 
of a calm world and a long peace ; and such have I to fill up 
the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you 
would think I had an hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately 
come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad 



SOLILOQUY AND MEDITATION'. 337 

fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the 
gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such 
scarecrows. I '11 not march through Coventry with them, that 's 
flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if 
they had gyves on ; for indeed I had the most of them out of 
prison. There 's but a shirt and a half in all my company, and 
the half-shirt is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over 
the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves ; and the shirt, 
to say the truth, stolen from my host of St. Albans, or the red- 
rosed innkeeper of Daintry. But that 's all one, they '11 find linen 
enough on every hedge. shakspeare. 



SOLILOQUY OF DICK THE APPRENTICE. 

Thus far we run before the wind ! An apothecary ? — make 
an apothecary of me ! — What, cramp my genius over a pestle 
and mortar ; or mew me up in a shop with an alligator stuffed, 
and a beggarly account of empty boxes ! — to be culling sim- 
ples, and constantly adding to the bills of mortality ! — No, no ! 
It will be much better to be pasted up in capitals, " The part of 
Romeo by a young gentleman who never appeared on any stage 
before." My ambition fires at the thought. — But hold — May n't 
I run some chance of failing in my attempt ! — hissed — pelted 
— laughed at — not admitted into the green-room ; that will 
never do — down, busy devil, down, down. — - Try it again : — 
loved by the women, envied by the men, applauded by the 
pit, clapped by the gallery, admired by the boxes — "Dear 
colonel, is n't he a charming creature ? My lord, do n't you 
like him of all things ? — makes love like an angel ? — what an 
eye he has? — fine legs — I shall certainly go to his benefit." 
Celestial sounds ! — And then I '11 get in with all the painters, 
and have myself put in every print shop — in the character of 
Macbeth! "This is a sorry sight" — (assumes an attitude.) 
In the character of Richard, — " Give me another horse ; bind 
up my wounds." — This will do rarely. — And then I have a 
chance of getting well married — oh, glorious thought ! I will 
enjoy it, though but in fancy — But what 's o'clock ? — it must 
be almost nine. I '11 away at once ; this is club night — the 
spouters are all met — little think they I 'm in town — they '11 
be surprised to see me — off I go ; and then for my assignation 
with my master Gargle's daughter — 

" Limbs, do your office, and support me well ; 
Bear me but to her, then fail me if you can." 
29 



THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



WIT — HUMOR — BURLESQUE. 



THE RHYMING APOTHECARY. 

A member of the iEsculapian line 
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne ; 
~No man could better gild a pill, 

Or make a bill ; 
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister ; 
Or draw a tooth out of your head ; 
Or chatter scandal by your bed ; 

Or spread a plaster. 

He had a patient lying at death's door, 
Some three miles from the town, — it might be four, 
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article, 
In pharmacy that 's called cathartical, 
And on the label of the stuff 

He wrote a verse, 
Which, one would think, was clear enough, 
And terse : 
"When taken, 
To be well shaken." 

Early next morning, Bolus rose, 
And to his patient's house he goes, 

Upon his pad, 
Which a vile trick of stumbling had : 
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack ; — 

But that 's of course ; 

For, what 's expected from a horse, 
With an apothecary on his back ? 
Bolus arrived, and gave a loudish tap, 
Between a single and a double rap. 

Knocks of this kind 

Are given by gentlemen, who teach to dance ; 

By fiddlers and by opera singers ; 
One loud, and then a little one behind, 
As if the knocker fell by chance 

Out of their fingers. 



WIT -— HUMOR BURLESQUE, 

The servant lets him in with dismal face, 
Long as a courtier's out of place — 

Portending some disaster ; 
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, 
As if th' apothecary had physicked him, 

And not his master. 

" Well, how 's the patient ? " Bolus said : 

John shook his head. 
" Indeed ! — hum ! — ha 1 — that 's very odd ! 
He took the draught ? " John gave a nod. 
" Well, how ? — what then ? Speak out, you dunce ! " 
"Why, then," says John, "we shook him once." 
" Shook him ! how ? " Bolus stammered out. 

"We jolted him about." 
" Zounds ! shake a patient, man ! — a shake won't do." 
" No, sir, and so we gave him two." 

" Two shakes ! — odds curse ! 

'T would make the patient worse." 
" It did so, sir, and so a third we tried." 
" Well, and what then ? " — " Then, sir, my master died." 

C0LMAN. 



ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. 

Will Wag went to see Charley Quirk, 

More famed for his books than his knowledge, 

In order to borrow a work 

He had sought for in vain over college. 

But Charley replied — " My dear friend, 
You must know I have sworn and agreed 

My books from my room not to lend, — 
But you may sit by my fire and read." 

Now it happened, by chance, on the morrow, 

That Quirk, with a cold, quivering air, 
Came his neighbor Will's bellows to borrow, 

For his own they were out of repair. 

But Willy replied — " My dear friend, 
I have sworn and agreed, j^ou must know, 

That my bellows I never will lend, — 

But you may sit by my fire and blow" mrs. gilman. 



340 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



OLD GRIMES. 



Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man 

We never shall see more ; 
He used to wear a long black coat, 

All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true ; 
His hair was some inclined to gray — 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned ; 

The large round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all ; 

He knew no base design ; 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind ; 

In friendship he was true ; 
His coat had pocket-holes behind ; 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 

He passed securely o'er ; 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown ; 

He wore a double-breasted vest — 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert ; 
He had no malice in his mind, 

~No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse — 

Was sociable and gay ; 
He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE, 341 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view ; 
Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods lie never threw 

In trust to fortune's chances ; 
But lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran, 
And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. albert g-. greene. 



THE REMOVAL. 



A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade, — 
By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made, — 
Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, 
Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down. 

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate ; 
But, alas ! when he entered he found it too late ; 
For in each dwelt a smith : — a more hard-working two 
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe. 

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, 
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk : 
" These fellows," he cried, " such a clattering keep, 
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep." 

From morning till night they keep thumping away, — 
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day : 
His afternoon's nap, and his daughter's new song, 
Were banished and spoiled by their hammers' ding-dong. 

He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop ; 
But, no ! they were stubborn, determined to stop : 
At length (both his spirits and health to improve) 
He cried, "I '11 give each fifty guineas to move." 

"Agreed ! " said the pair ; " that will make us amends.'' 
" Then come to my house, and let us part friends : 



342 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

You shall dine ; and we '11 drink on this joyful occasion, 
That each may live long in his new habitation.' ' 

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale, — 
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale ; 
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest 
"Would take from him noise, and restore to him rest. 

" And now," said he, " tell me, where mean you to move — 
I hope to some spot where your trade will improve ? " 
"Why, sir," replied one, with a grin on his phiz, 
" Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his ! " 

ANONYMOUS. 



HISTORY OF JOHN DAY. 

John Day, he was the biggest man 

Of all the coachman kind ; 
With back too broad to be conceived 

By any narrow mind. 

The very horses knew his weight, 

When he was in the rear, 
And wished his box a christmas-box, 

To come but once a year. 

Alas ! against the shafts of love 

What armor can avail ? 
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through 

His scarlet coat of mail. 

The bar-maid of " The Crown " he loved, 
From whom he never ranged ; 

For, though he changed his horses there, 
His love he never changed. 

He thought her fairest of all fares, 

So fondly love prefers ; 
And often among twelve outsides, 

No outside deemed like hers. 

One day as she was sitting down 
Beside the porter pump, 



HUMOR BURLESQUE. 343 



He came and knelt, with all his fat, 
And made an offer plump. 

Said she, " My taste will never learn 

To like so huge a man ; 
So I must beg you will come here 

As little as you can." 

But still he stoutly urged his suit, 
With vows, and sighs, and tears ; 

Yet could not pierce her heart, although 
He drove the Dart for years. 

In vain he wooed — in vain he sued — 
The maid was cold and proud, 

And sent him off to Coventry, 
While on the way to Stroud. 

He fretted all the way to Stroud, 
And thence all back to town ; 

The course of love was never smooth, 
So his went up and down. 

At last her coldness made him pine 

To merely bones and skin ; 
But still he loved like one resolved 

To love through thick and thin. 

" Mary ! view my wasted back, 

And see my dwindled calf ! 
Though I have never had a wife, 

I 've lost my better half ! " 

Alas ! in vain, he still assailed, 
Her heart withstood the dint ; 

Though he had carried sixteen stone, 
He could not move a flint ! 

Worn out, at last he made a vow, 

To break his being's link, 
For he was so reduced in size, 

At nothing he could shrink. 

Now, some will talk in water's praise, 
And waste a deal of breath ; 



344 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But John, though he drank nothing else, 
He drank himself to death. 

The cruel maid, that caused his love, 

Found out the fatal close, 
For looking in the butt, she saw 

The butt-end of his woes. 

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown ; 

But that is only talk ; 
For after riding all his life, 

His ghost objects to walk. 



THE ALARMED SKIPPER. 

Many a long, long year ago, 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though " lying low," 

How near New York their schooners ran. 

They greased the lead before it fell, 

And then, by sounding through the night, 

Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, 

They always guessed their reckoning right. 

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, 
Could tell by tasting, just the spot, 

And so below, he 'd " dowse the glim " — 
After, of course, his " something hot." 

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, 
This ancient skipper might be found ; 

No matter how his craft would rock, 

He slept — for skippers' naps are sound ! 

The watch on deck would now and then 
Run down and wake him, with the lead ; 

He 'd up and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, 
A curious wag — the peddler's son ; 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 345 

And so lie mused, (the wanton wretch,) 
" To-night I '11 have a grain of fun. 

ti We 're all a set of stupid fools, 

To think the skipper knows by tasting 
What ground he 's on ; Nantucket schools 

Do n't teach such stuff, with all their basting ! " 

And so he took the well greased lead, 

And rubbed it o'er a box of earth 
That stood on deck — (a parsnep bed) — - 

And then he sought the skipper's berth. 

" Where are we now, sir ? Please to taste." 
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 

Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, 
And then upon the floor he sprung ! 

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, 

Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden — 

''Nantucket's sunk, and here we are 

Right over old Marm Hackett's garden ! " 

J. T. FIELD. 



THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN. 

All the world 's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. 

At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : 
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school : and then, the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow : then, a soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth : and then, the justice, 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 



346 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
And so he plays his part : the sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound : last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 

One took the other briskly by the hand : 

" Hark ye," said he, " 't is an odd story this, 

About the crows ! " — "I do n't know what it is," 

Replied his friend. — " No ? I 'm surprised at that ; 

Where I come from, it is the common chat : 

But you shall hear : an odd affair indeed ! 

And that it happened, they are all agreed : 

Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 

A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, 

This week, in short, as all the alley knows, 

Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." 

" Impossible ! " — " Nay, but it 's really true ; 

I had it from good hands, and so may you." 

" From whose, I pray ? " So having named the man, 

Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. 

" Sir, did you tell " — relating the affair — 

" Yes, sir, I did ; and if it 's worth your care, 

Ask Mr. Such-a-one ; he told it me ; 

But, by the by, 't was two black crows, not three." 

Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, 

Whip to the third the virtuoso went. 

" Sir," — and so forth — " Why, yes ; the thing is fact, 

Though in regard to number not exact ; 

It was not two black crows ; 't was only one ; 

The truth of that you may depend upon : 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 347 

The gentleman himself told me the case." 

" Where may I find him ? " " Why, — in such a place/' 

Away he goes, and having found him out, — 

" Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." 

Then to his last informant he referred, 

And begged to know if true what he had heard. 

"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow ? " " ISTot I ! " 

" Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! 

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, 

And here I find at last all comes to none ! 

Did you say nothing of a crow at all ? " 

" Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now I recall 

The matter over." " And pray, sir, what was 't ? " 

"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 

I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, 

Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." byrom. 



THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. 

In Broad-street buildings, (on a winter night,) 
Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight 

Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing 
His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose ; 
With t' other he 'd beneath his nose 

The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing 
He noted all the sales of hops, 
Ships, shops, and slops, 
Gums, galls, and groceries, ginger, gin, 
Tar, tallow, tumeric, turpentine, and tin ; 

When, lo ! a decent personage in black 
Entered, and most politely said — 

" Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track 
To the — King's Head, 
And left your door ajar, which I 
Observed in passing by ; 

And thought it neighborly to give you notice." 
Ten thousand thanks — how very few get 
In time of danger 
Such kind attentions from a stranger ! 

Assuredly that fellow's throat is 
Doomed to a final drop at Newgate : 
He knows, too, (the unconscious elf, ) 



348 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

That there 's no soul at home except myself." 

"Indeed ! replied the stranger," looking grave, 

" Then he'sa double knave : 
He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
Nightly beset unguarded doors : 

And see, how easily might one 
Of these domestic foes, 
Even beneath your very nose, 
Perform his knavish tricks ; 

Enter your room, as I have done, 

Blow out your candles — thus — and thus, 
Pocket your silver candlesticks, 

And walk off — thus ! " 
So said — so done — he made no more remark, 

Nor waited for replies, 

But marched off with his prize, 
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. anonymous. 



MISCONCEPTION. 

Ere night her sable curtains spread ; 
Ere Phoebus had retired to bed 

In Thetis' lap ; 
Ere drowsy watchmen yet had ta'en 

Their early nap, — 

A wight, by hungry fiend made bold, 
To farmer Fitz -Maurice's fold 

Did slily creep, 
Where numerous flocks were quiet laid 

In the arms of sleep. 

No doubt the sheep he meant to steal ; 
But, hapless, close behind his heel 

Was ploughman Joe, 
Who just arrived in time to stop 

The murderous blow. 

May ill luck on ill actions wait ! 
The felon must to justice straight 

Be dragged by force ; 
Where prosecutors urge his guilt, 

Without remorse. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 349 

With fear o'erwhehned, the victim stands, 
Anticipates the dread commands 

From the elbow chair, 
Where justice sits in solemn state, 

With brow austere. 

" Rogue ! Avhat excuse hast thou for this ? 
For to old Gilbert Fitz -Maurice, 

Thou knew'st full well, 
The sheep within that fold belonged — 

Come, quickly tell. 

Confess thy crime ; 't will naught avail 
To say, the mark above the tail 

Thou didst not heed ; 
For G. F. M., in letters large, 

Thou plain might'st read." 

■" 'T is true, I did," the thief replies ; 
" But man is not at all times wise ; 

As I'm a glutton, 
I really thought that G. F. M. 

Meant — Good, Fat, Mutton ! " anonymous. 



THE APPLE-DUMPLINGS AND GEORGE III. 

Once in the chase, this monarch drooping, 
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, 

Entered, through curiosity, a cot, 

Where an old crone was hanging on the pot ; 
The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, 
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 

Had apple-dumplings ready for the pot ; 
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 
When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 

Like lightning asked, " What's here ? what's here ? what ? 
what ? what ? what ? " 
Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
His eyes with admiration did expand — 

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : 
" 'T is monstrous, monstrous, monstrous hard," he cried ; 
" What makes the thing so hard ? " The dame replied, 



350 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Low courtesying, " Please your majesty, the apple.'* 
" Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing ! " 
(Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king, 
" 'T is most extraordinary now, all this is — 
It beats the conjurer's capers all to pieces — 
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream, — 
But Goody, tell me, where, where, where 's the seam ?" 
" Sire, there 's no seam," quoth she, " I never knew 
That folks did apple -dumplings sew ! " — 
" No ? " cried the staring monarch with a grin, 
" Then, where, where, where, pray, got the apple in ?" 

WOLCOTT. 



THE DIRECTING POST. 



In winter, once, an honest traveling wight 

Pursued his road to Derby, late at night ; 

'T was very cold, the wind was bleak and high, 

And not a house nor living thing was nigh ; 

At length he came to where some four roads met, 

(It rained too, and he was completely wet,) 

And being doubtful which way he should take, 

He drew up to the finger-post to make 

It out — and after much of poring, fumbling, 

Some angry oaths, and a great deal of grumbling, 

'T was thus the words he traced — " To Derby — five ;" 

" A goodly distance yet, as I 'm alive ! " 

But on he drove a weary length of way, 

And wished his journey he 'd delayed till day : 

He wondered that no town appeared in view, 

(The wind blew stronger, it rained faster too,) 

When to his great relief he met a man : 

" I say, good friend, pray tell me, if you can, 

How far is 't hence to Derby ? " " Derby, hey ! 

Why zur, thee be'est completely come astray ; 

This y'ant the road." " Why zounds the guide-post showed 

' To Derby, five ' — and pointed down this road ! " 

" Ay, dang it, that may be, for you maun know, 

The post it war blown down last night, and so 

This morn I put it up again, but whether 

(As I can't put great A and B together) 

The post is right, I 'm zure I cannot zay — 

The town is just five miles the other way." anonymous. 



HUMOR BURLESQUE. 351 



THE ATHEIST AND ACORN. 

" Methinks the world seems oddly made 

And everything amiss ;" 
A dull complaining atheist said, 
As stretched he lay beneath the shade, 

And instanced it in this : 

" Behold," quoth he, " that mighty thing, 

A pumpkin large and round, 
Is held but by a little string, 
Which upward cannot make it spring, 

Nor bear it from the ground. 

" While on this oak an acorn small, 

So disproportioned grows, 
That whosoe'er surveys this all, 
This universal casual ball, 

Its ill contrivance knows. 

" My better judgment would have hung 

The pumpkin on the tree, 
And left the acorn slightly strung, 
'Mongst things that on the surface sprung, 

And weak and feeble be." 

No more the caviler could say, 

No further faults descry ; 
For upward gazing, as he lay, 
An acorn, loosened from its spray, 

Fell down upon his eye. 

The wounded part with tears ran o'er, 

As punished for that sin : 
Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, 
Thy whimseys would have worked no more, 

Nor skull have kept them in. anonymous. 



THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 

An ass a nightingale espied, 
And shouted out, " Hollo ! hollo ! good friend ! 
Thou art a first-rate singer, they pretend : — 

Now let me hear thee, that I may decide ; 



352 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

I really wish to know — the world is partial ever — 
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever." 
The nightingale began her heavenly lays : 

Through all the regions of sweet music ranging, 
Varying her song a thousand different ways ; 

Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing ; 
Full of wild rapture now — then sinking oft 
To almost silence — melancholy, soft, 
As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close ; 

Strewing the wood with lovelier music : — there 
All nature seems to listen and repose ; 

No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air : — 
All other voices of the grove are still, 
And the charmed flocks lie down beside the rill. 

The shepherd like a statue stands — afraid 
His breathing may disturb the melody ; 
His finger, pointing to the melodious tree, 

Seems to say, " Listen ! " to his favorite maid. 
The singer ended : — and our critic bowed 
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud, 
" Now that 's so, so ; — thou really hast some merit ; 
Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it. 
Thy voice wants sharpness : — but if chanticleer 

Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he 
Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear ; 

And thou, in spite of all thy faults, mayest be 
A very decent singer." The poor bird 
In silent modesty the critic heard, 
And winged her peaceful flight into the air, 
O'er many and many a field and forest fair. 
Many such critics you and I have seen : — 
Heaven be our screen S kriler 



THE YOUNG FLY AND THE OLD SPIDER. 

Fresh was the breath of morn — the busy breeze, 
As poets tell us, whispered through the trees, 

And swept the dew-clad blooms with wings so light : 
Phoebus got up, and made a blazing fire, 
That gilded every country-house and spire, 

And smiling, put on his best looks so bright. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 353 

On this fair morn, a spider who had set, 
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net, 

With cautious art, upon a spangled thorn, 
At length with gravely-squinting, longing eye, 
Near him espied a pretty, plump, young fly, 

Humming her little orisons to morn. 

" Good morrow, dear Miss Fly," quoth gallant Grim. — 
" Good morrow, sir," replied Miss Fly to him. 

"Walk in, miss, pray, and see what I 'm about." 
" I 'm much obliged t' ye, sir," Miss Fly rejoined, 
"My eyes are both so very good, I find, 

That I can plainly see the whole without." 

" Fine weather, miss." " Yes, very fine," 
Quoth Miss ; " prodigious fine indeed ! " 
" But why so coy ?" quoth Grim, " that you decline 
To put within my bower your pretty head ? " 
" 'T is simply this," 
Quoth cautious Miss, 
" I fear you 'd like my pretty head so well, 
You '& keep it for yourself, sir, — who can tell ? " 

" Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear, 
And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain." — 

" I 've a sore finger, sir ; nay more, I fear 
You really would not let it go again." 

" Poh, poh, child, pray dismiss your idle dread : 
I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head — 

Well, then, with one sweet kiss of friendship meet me." 
" La, sir," quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, 
" I fear our salutation would be long : 

So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me." 

So saying, with a smile she left the rogue, 

To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog. 

WOLCOTT. 



SPECTACLES, OR HELPS TO READ. 

A certain artist — I 've forgot his name — 
Had got for making spectacles a fame, 
Or "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, 
30 



354 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold ; 

And, for all uses to be had from glass, 

His were allowed by readers to surpass. 

There came a man into his shop one day — 

" Are you the spectacle contriver, pray ? " 

" Yes, sir," said he, " I can in that affair 

Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." — 

" Can you ? pray do then." So, at first, he chose 

To place a youngish pair upon his nose ; 

And book produced, to see how they would fit : 

Asked how he liked 'em ? — " Like 'em ? not a bit." — 

" Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try, 

These in my hand will better suit your eye." — 

" No, but they do n't." — " Well, come, sir, if you please, 

Here is another sort, we '11 e'en try these ; 

Still somewhat more they magnify the letter ; 

Now, sir ? " — " Why, now — I 'm not a bit the better." — 

" No ? here, take these that magnify still more ; 

How do they fit ? " — " Like all the rest before." 

In short, they tried a whole assortment through ; 

But all in vain, for none of 'em would do. 

The operator, much surprised to find 

So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind ! 

" What sort of eyes can you have got ? " said he. — 

" Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see." — - 

" Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball — 

Pray, let me ask you — can you read at all ? " 

" No, you great blockhead ; if I could, what need 

Of paying you for any ' helps to read ?' " 

And so he left the maker in a heat, 

Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat. byrom. 



LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. 

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, 
Has seen, "lodgings to let," stare him full in the face. 
Some are good and let dearly ; while some, 't is well known, 
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. 

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, 
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only ; 
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a tun, 
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 355 

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated ; 
But, all the night long, he felt fevered and heated ; 
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, 
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. 

Next night 't was the same ! — and the next ! and the next ! 
He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous, and vexed ; 
Week after week, till by weekly succession, 
His weakly condition was past all expression. 

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; 
For his skin " like a lady's loose gown" hung about him. 
He sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny, 
"I 've lost many pounds — make me well — there 's a guinea." 

The doctor looked wise : — " A slow fever," he said ; 
Prescribed sudorifics, — and going to bed. 
" Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, " are humbugs ! 
I 've enough of them there, without paying for drugs ! " 

Will kicked out the doctor : but when ill indeed, 
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ; 
So, calling his host, he said, " Sir, do you know 
I 'm the fat single gentleman, six months ago ? " 

" Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, 
" That with honest intentions you first took me in ; 
But from the first night — and to say it I 'm bold — 
I 've been so very hot, that I am sure I caught cold ! " 

Quoth the landlord, " Till now, I ne'er had a dispute — 
I 've let lodgings ten years, I 'm a baker to boot ; 
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ; 
And your bed is immediately — over my oven." 

" The oven ! " says Will ; — says the host, " Why this passion ? 
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. 
Why so crusty, good sir ? " " Zounds ! " cried Will in a taking, 
" Who would not be crusty, with half a year's baking ? " 

Will paid for his rooms : — cried the host with a sneer, 

" Well, I see you 've been going away half a year." 

" Friend, we can 't well agree ; — yet no quarrel," Will said ; 

" But I 'd rather not perish, while you make your bread." 

COLMAN. 



356 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC. 

Cardinal Wolsey was a man 
" Of an unbounded stomach," Shakspeare says, 
Meaning (in metaphor) for ever puffing 
To swell beyond his size and span. 
But had he seen a player of our days, 
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing, 
He would have owned that Wolsey 's bulk ideal 
Equaled not that within the bounds 
This actor's belt surrounds, 
Which is, moreover, all alive and real. 

This player, when the peace enabled shoals 

Of our odd fishes 
To visit every clime between the poles, 
Swam with the stream, a histrionic kraken : 

Although his wishes 
Must not in this proceeding be mistaken ; 
For he went out, professionally bent, 
To see how money might be made, not spent. 

In this most laudible employ, 
He found himself at Lille one afternoon ; 

And that he might the breeze enjoy, 
And catch a peep at the ascending moon, 
Out of the town he took a stroll, 
Refreshing in the fields his soul 
With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces, 
And thoughts of crowded houses, and new pieces. 
When we are pleasantly employed time flies : 
He counted up his profits, in the skies, 
Until the moon began to shine ; 

On which he gazed awhile, and then 
Pulled out his watch, and cried, " Past nine ! 
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten ! " 
Backward he turned his steps instanter, 
Stumping along with might and main ; 
And though 't is plain 
He could n't gallop, trot or canter, 
(Those who had seen him would confess it,) he 
Marched well for one of such obesity. 
Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping, 

He puffed and blew along the road, 
Afraid of meeting, more afraid of stopping ; 
When in his path he met a clown 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 357 

Returning from the town : 
" Tell me," he panted, in a thawing state, 
"Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate ? " 

" Get in ! " replied the hesitating loon, 
Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, 
" Why — yes, sir, I should think you might, — 

A load of hay went in this afternoon." 



LOGIC. 

An Eton stripling — training for the law, 

A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw, — 

One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf 

His cap and gown and stores of learned pelf, 

"With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, 

To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. 

Returned, and passed the usual how-d' ye-do's, 

Inquiries of old friends, and college news. — 

" Well, Tom, the road ? what saw you worth discerning ? 

How 's all at college, Tom ? what is 't you 're learning ? " 

" Learning ? — oh, logic, logic ; not the shallow rules 

Of Lockes and Bacons, antiquated fools ! 

But wits' and wranglers' logic ; for, d' ye see, 

I '11 prove as clear as A, B, C, 

That an eel-pie 's a pigeon ; to deny it, 

Is to say black 's not black." — " Come, let 's try it ? " — 

" Well, sir ; an eel-pie is a pie of fish." — " Agreed." — 

" Fish-pie may be a jack-pie." — "■ Well, well, proceed." 

" A jack-pie is a John-pie — and 'tis done ! 

For every John-pie must be a pie-John." (pigeon.) 

" Bravo ! Bravo ! " Sir Peter cries, — •' Logic for ever ! 

This beats my grandmother, — and she was clever. 

But now I think on 't, 't would be mighty hard 

If merit such as thine met no reward : 

To show how much I logic love, in course 

I '11 make thee master of a chestnut-horse." 

" A horse ! " quoth Tom ; " blood, pedigree, and paces ! 

Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races ! " 

Tom dreampt all night of boots and leather breeches, 

Of hunting cats and leaping rails and ditches ; 

Rose the next morn an hour before the lark, 

And dragged his uncle, fasting, to the park ; 



358 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course 

To find out something like a chestnut-horse ; 

But no such animal the meadows crop ; 

Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopt, 

Caught at a branch and shook it, when down fell 

A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell. 

" There, Tom, take that" " Well, sir, and what beside ? " 

« Why, since you 're booted, saddle it and ride." 

" Ride ! what, a chestnut, sir ? " "Of course, 

For I can prove that chestnut is a horse : 

Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules 

Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools ! 

Nor old Malebranche, blind pilot into knowledge ; 

But by the laws of wit and Eton college : 

As you have proved, and which I don 't deny, 

That a pie- John 's the same as a John-pie, 

The matter follows, as a thing of course, 

That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse." anonymous. 



APOLOGY FOR THE PIG. 



Jacob, I do not love to see thy nose 
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig : 
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him, 
Were perfect in our kind. And why despise 
The sow-born grunter ? He is obstinate, 
Thou answerest ; ugly ; and the filthiest beast 
That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray thee 
Hear the pig's counsel. 

Is he obstinate ? 
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, 
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast, 
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
Their profit and not his. He hath not learned 
That pigs were made for man, bom to be brawned 
And baconized. As for his ugliness, — 
Nay, Jacob, look at him ; 
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. 
Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : 
And what is beauty but the aptitude 
Of parts harmonious : give fancy scope, 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 359 

And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
Can beautify the beast. All would but mar 
His pig perfection. 

The last charge, - — he lives 
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him 
With precedents right reverend and noble, 
And show by sanction of authority, 
That 't is a very honorable thing 
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
On better ground the unanswerable defense. 
The pig is a philosopher, who knows 
No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob, what is dirt ? 
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts 
The o'ergorged epicure is nothing more. 
And there, that breeze 

Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile 
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field 
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 

SOUTHEY. 



THE DUEL. 

In Brentford town, of old renown, 

There lived a Mister Bray, 
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, 

And so did Mister Clay. 

To see her ride from Hammersmith, 

By all it was allowed, 
Such fair " outside " was never seen, — 

An angel on a cloud. 

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, 

" You choose to rival me, 
And court Miss Bell ; but there your court 

No thoroughfare shall be. 

" Unless you now give up your suit, 
You may repent your love ; — 

I, who have shot a pigeon match, 
Can shoot a turtle dove. 

" So, pray, before you woo her more, 
Consider what you do : 



360 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell, 
I '11 pop it into you." 

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, 

" Your threats I do explode ; — 

One who has been a volunteer 
Knows how to prime and load. 

" And so I say to you, unless 

Your passion quiet keeps, 
I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, 

May chance to hit a sheep's 1 " 

Now gold is oft for silver changed, 

And that for copper red ; 
But these two went away to give 

Each other change for lead. 

But first they found a friend apiece, 
This pleasant thought to give, 

That when they both were dead, they 'd have 
Two seconds yet to live. 

To measure out the ground, not long 

The seconds next forbore ; 
And having taken one rash step, 

They took a dozen more. 

They next prepared each pistol pan, 

Against the deadly strife ; 
By putting in the prime of death, 

Against the prime of life. 

Now all was ready for the foes ; 

But when they took their stands, 
Fear made them tremble so, they found 

They both were shaking hands. 

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., 

" Here one of us may fall, 
And, like St. Paul's Cathedral, now 

Be doomed to have a ball. 

" I do confess I did attach 
Misconduct to your name ! 



WIT HUMOR — BURLESQUE. 361 

If I withdraw the charge, will then 
Your ramrod do the same ? " 

Said Mr. B., "I do agree ; — 

But think of honor's courts, — 
If we go off without a shot, 

There will be strange reports. 

" But look ! the morning now is bright, 

Though cloudy it begun ; 
Why can't we aim above, as if 

We had called out the sun? " 

So up into the harmless air 

Their bullets they did send ; 
And may all other duels have 

That upshot in the end. hood. 



FRANK HAYMAN. 



Frank Hayman dearly loved a pleasant joke, 
And after long contention with the gout, 
A foe that oft besieged him, sallied out 

To breathe fresh air, and appetite provoke. 
It chanced as he was strolling void of care, 
A drunken porter passed him with a hare ; 

The hare was o'er his shoulder flung, 

Dangling behind in piteous plight, 

And as he crept in zigzag style, 

Making the most of every mile, 

From side to side poor pussy swung, 
As if each moment taking flight. 

A dog who saw the man's condition, 
A lean and hungry politician, 
On the look-out, was close behind — 
A sly and subtle chap, 
Of most sagacious smell, 
Like politicians of a higher kind, 
Ready to snap 
At anything that fell. 

The porter staggered on ; the dog kept near, 
Watching each lucky moment for a bite, 
31 



362 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Now made a spring, and then drew back in fear, 
While Hayman followed, tittering at the sight. 

Through many a street our tipsy porter goes, 
Then 'gainst a cask in solemn thought reclined ; 

The watchful dog the happy moment knows, 
And Hayman cheers him on not far behind. 

Encouraged thus, what dog would dare refrain ? [again ,* 

He jumped and bit, and jumped and bit, and jumped and bit 

Till having made a hearty meal, 

He careless turned upon his heel, 

And trotted at his ease away, 

Nor thought of asking — " What 's to pay ?" 

And here some sage, with moral spleen may say, 
" This Hayman should have driven the dog away ! 
The effects of vice the blameless should not bear, 
And folks that are not drunkards lose their hare." 

Not so unfashionably good, 

The waggish Hayman laughing stood, 

Until our porter's stupor o'er, 

He jogged on, tottering as before, 

Unconscious any body kind 

Had eased him of his load behind ; — 

Now on the houses bent his eye, 

As if his journey's end were nigh, 

Then read a paper in his hand, 

And made a stand. — 
Hayman drew near with eager mien, 
To mark the closing of the scene, 

His mirth up to the brim ; 
The porter read the address once more, 
And hiccoughed, "Where 's one Hayman's door ? 

I 've got a hare for him ! " taylor. 



CHRISTMAS TIMES. 



'T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 



WIT HUMOK BURLESQUE. 363 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads, 

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap; 

When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 

Gave the lustre of midday to objects below. 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 

With a little old driver so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; 

" Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer ! now, Vixen ! 

On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Dunder and Blixen ! 

To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 

Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! " 

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky, 

So up to the house top the coursers they flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too, 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, 

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof ; 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 

A bundle of toys was flung on his back, 

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack ; 

His eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, how merry ! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow, 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 

He had a broad face, and a little round belly, 

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 

And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself. 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 



364 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And filled all his stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

" Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night." 



A GRECIAN FABLE. 



Once on a time, a son and sire, we 're told, — 

The stripling tender, and the father old, — 

Purchased a donkey at a country fair, 

To ease their limbs, and hawk about their ware ; 

But as the sluggish animal was weak, 

They feared, if both should mount, his back would break. 

Up got the boy, the father plods on foot, 

And through the gazing crowd he leads the brute ; — 

Forth from the crowd the graybeards hobble out, 

And hail the cavalcade with feeble shout : 

" This the respect to feeble age you show ? 

And this the duty you to parents owe ? 

He beats the hoof, and you are set astride ; 

Sirrah ! get down, and let your father ride ! " 

As Grecian lads were seldom void of grace, 

The decent, duteous youth resigned his place. 

Then a fresh murmur through the rabble ran ; 

Boys, girls, wives, widows, all attack the man : 

" Sure ne'er was brute so void of nature ! 

Have you no pity for the pretty creature ? 

To your own baby can you be unkind ? 

Here, Luke, — Bill, — Betty, — put the child behind ! " 

Old dapple next the clowns' compassion claimed : 

" 'T is passing strange those boobies be n't ashamed, — 

Two at a time upon a poor dumb beast ! 

They might as well have carried him, at least." 

The pair, still pliant to the partial voice, 

Dismount, and bear the brute. — Then what a noise ! — 

Huzzas, loud laughs, low gibe, and bitter joke, 

From the yet silent sire these words provoke : 

" Proceed, my boy, nor heed their farther call ; 

Vain his attempt who strives to please them all ! " foote. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 365 



THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR SELLER. 

A fellow, in a market town, 

Most musical, cried razors up and down, 
And offered twelve for eighteen pence ; 

Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap ; 

And, for the money, quite a heap, 
As every man would buy, with cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer heard ; 

Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, 
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose ; 

With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, 

And proudly to himself in whisper said, 
" This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. 

" No matter if the fellow be a knave, 

Provided that the razors shave ; 
It certainly will be a monstrous prize." 

So home the clown with his good fortune went, 

Smiling, in heart and soul content, 
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. 

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, 
Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub, 

Just like a hedger cutting furze : 

'T was a vile razor ! — then the rest he tried — 
All were impostors ! — " Ah ! " Hodge sighed, 

" I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." 

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 

He cut and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, 

Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made wry faces, 
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er. 

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, 

Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff ; 
So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds. 

Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, 

Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, 
On the vile cheat that sold the goods. 



" Razors ! — a vile, confounded dog — 
Not fit to scrape a hog ! " 



366 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Hodge sought the fellow — found him — and begun, 
" Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, 

That people flay themselves out of their lives : 
You rascal ! for an hour have I been grubbing, 
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, 

With razors just like oyster-knives. 

'* Sirrah ! I tell you, you 're a knave. 
To cry up razors that can 't shave." 

" Friend," quoth the razor man, " I 'm not a knave : 

As for the razors you have bought, 

Upon my soul, I never thought 
That they would shave." 

" Hot think they 'd shave ? " quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, 

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; 
" What were they made for, then, you dog ? " he cries. 

" Made ! " quoth the fellow, with a smile — " to sell." 

WOLCOTT. 



QUEEN MAB. 

Oh, then, I see, queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams : 
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film : 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid : 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. 
And in this state she gallops night by night 
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; 
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 367 

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ; 

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 

Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ; 

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, 

Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 

Then dreams he of another benefice ; 

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 

Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 

Drums in his ear ; at which he starts, and wakes ; 

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 

And sleeps again. shakspeare. 



THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN. 

So goes the world ; — if wealthy, you may call 

This — friend, that — brother; — friends and brothers all; 

Though you are worthless, witless — never mind it ; 

You may have been a stable boy — what then ? 

'T is wealth, my friends, makes honorable men. 

You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it. 

But if you are poor, heaven help you ! though your sire 

Had royal blood in him, and though you 

Possess the intellect of angels too, 

'T is all in vain ; — the world will ne'er inquire 

On such a score : — why should it take the pains ? 

'T is easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. 

I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, 

Witty and wise ; — he paid a man a visit, 

And no one noticed him, and no one ever 

Gave him a welcome. " Strange," cried I, " whence is it ? " 

He walked on this side, then on that, 

He tried to introduce a social chat ; 
Now here, now there, in vain he tried ; 
Some formally and freezingly replied, 
And some said by their silence — " Better stay at home." 

A rich man burst the door, 
As Crcesus rich ; — I 'm sure 



368 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He could not pride himself upon his wit ; 
And as for wisdom, he had none of it ; 
He had what 's better, — he had wealth. 

What a confusion ! — all stand up erect — 
These crowd around to ask him of his health; 

These bow in honest duty and respect ; 
And these arrange a sofa or a chair, 
And these conduct him there. 
"Allow me, sir, the honor ; " — then a bow 
Down to the earth — is 't possible to show 
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension ? 

The poor man hung his head, 

And to himself he said, 
" This is indeed beyond my comprehension." 
Then looking round, one friendly face he found, 
And said, " Pray tell me why is wealth preferred 
To wisdom ? " — " That 's a silly question, friend ! " 
Replied the other — " have you never heard, 

A man may lend his store 

Of gold or silver ore, 
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ? " khemnitzer. 



THE FROST. 

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered — " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
So, through the valley, and over the hight, 

In silence I '11 take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train, — 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, — 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ; 

But I '11 be as busy as they/' 

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest ; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed 
In diamond beads ; and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear, 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 369 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 

By the light of the moon, were seen 
Most beautiful things ; there were flowers and trees ; 
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees ; 
There were cities, with temples and towers ; and these 

All pictured in silver sheen. 

But he did one thing that was hardily fair, — 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare — 

" Now, just to set them a-thinking, 
I '11 bite this basket of fruit," said he ; 
" This costly pitcher I '11 burst in three ; 
And the glass of water they 've left for me 
Shall ' tchick' ! to tell them I 'm drinking." 

HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE THREE WARNINGS. 

When sports went round, and all were gay, 
On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room, 
And, looking grave — " You must," says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 

" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
With you !" the hapless husband cried ; 
" Young as I am ? 't is monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared ; 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-night, you know." 

What more he urged I have not heard ; 
His reasons could not well be stronger : 

So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 

Yet, calling up a serious look, — 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, — 
"Neighbor," he said, " farewell! no more 
Shall Death disturb vour mirthful hour: 



370 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And further, to avoid all blame 

Of cruelty upon thy name, 

To give you time for preparation, 

And fit you for your future station, 

Three several warnings you shall have 

Before you 're summoned to the grave. 

Willing, for once, I '11 quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve, 

In hopes you '11 have no more to say, 

But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased, the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted, perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 

How long he lived, how wisely, and how well, - 

How roundly he pursued his course, 

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, — 

The willing muse shall tell. 
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once preceived his growing old, 

Nor thought of Death as near ; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But, while he viewed his wealth increase, — 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trode, — 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 

And now, one night, in musing mood, 

When all alone he sate, 

Th' unwelcome messenger of fate 
Once more before him stood. 
Half killed with anger and surprise — 
" So soon returned ! " old Dobson cries. 
" So soon, d' ye call it ? " Death replies : 
" Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest ! 

Since I was here before 
'T is six-and-thirty years, at least, 

And you are now fourscore." 

" So much the worse ! " the clown rejoined : 
'* To spare the aged would be kind : 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 371 

Besides, you promised me three warnings, 

Which I have looked for nights and mornings." 

" I know," cries Death, " that, at the best, 

I seldom am a welcome guest ; 

But don 't be captious, friend, at least. 

I little thought you 'd still be able 

To stump about your farm and stable. 

Your years have run to a great length ; 

I wish you joy, though, of your strength." 

" Hold ! " says the farmer, " not so fast : 
I have been lame these four years past." 
" And no great wonder," Death replies : 
" However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends." 
" Perhaps," says Dobson, " so it might ; 
But latterly I 've lost my sight." 
" This is a shocking story, faith ! 
Yet there 's some comfort, still," says Death : 
"Each strives your sadness to amuse : 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

"There 's none," cries he ; " and if there were, 
I 'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 

" These are unwarrantable yearnings. 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 

You 've had your three sufficient warnings. 
So come along ; no more we '11 part ! " 
He said, and touched him with his dart ; 
And now old Dobson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 

MRS. THRALE. 



THE MUSIC CRIER. 

Amongst the great inventions of this age, 
"Which ev'ry other century surpasses, 

Is one, — just now the rage, — 

Called " Singing for all classes " — 

That now, alas ! have no more ear than asses, 
To learn to warble like the birds in June. 



372 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

In time and tune, 
Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses ! 

Whether this grand harmonic scheme 

Will ever get beyond a dream, 
And tend to British happiness and glory, 

May be no, and may be yes, 

Is more than I pretend to guess — 
However, here 's my story. 

In one of those small, quiet streets, 

Where business retreats, 
To shun the daily bustle and the noise 

The shoppy Strand enjoys, 
But law, joint-companies, and life assurance 

Find past endurance — 
In one of these back streets, to peace so dear, 
The other day, a ragged wight 
Began to sing with all his might, 
" I have a silent sorrow here ! " 

Heard in that quiet place, 
Devoted to a still and studious race, 

The noise was quite appalling ! 
To seek a fitting simile, and spin it, 

Appropriate to his calling, 
His voice had all Lablache's body in it ; 
But oh ! the scientific tone it lacked, 
And was in fact 
Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling ! 

*T was said, indeed, for want of vocal nous, 

The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it, 
For though his voice completely filled the house, 
It also emptied it. 
However, there he stood 
Vociferous — a rao-o-ed don ! 
And with his iron pipes laid on — 
A row to all the neighborhood. 

In vain were sashes closed, 

And doors against the persevering Stentor, 
Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed, 

The intruding voice would enter, 
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, 
Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum ; 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 373 

Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools, 
Ladies, and masters who attended schools, 
Clerks, agents all provided with their tools, 
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, 
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em — 
How it did bore 'em ! 



Louder, and louder still, 
The fellow sang with horrible good-will, 
Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities, 
From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw 

In deeds of law 

They had to draw ; 
With dreadful incongruities 
In posting ledgers, making up accounts 

To large amounts, 
Or casting up annuities — 
Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse, 
Against whose overwhelming force 
No invoice stood a chance, of course ! 

From room to room, from floor to floor, 
From Number One to Twenty-four, 
The nuisance bellowed ; till, all patience lost, 
Down came Miss Frost, 
Expostulating at her open door — 
" Peace, monster, peace ! 
Where is the new police ? 
I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, 

Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, do n't ! 
You really send my serious thoughts astray, 
Do — there 's a dear, good man — do, go away. 
Says he, " I won't!" 

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, 
That sounded like a wooden d — n ; 
For so some moral people, strictly loth 
To swear in words, however up, 
Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, 
Or through a door-post vent a banging oath, — - 
In fact, this sort of physical transgression 
Is really no more difficult to trace, 
Than in a given face 
A very bad expression. 



374 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

However, in she went, 
Leaving the subject of her discontent 
To Mr. Jones' Clerk at Number Ten ; 
Who throwing up the sash, 
With accents rash, 
Thus hailed the most vociferous of men : 
" Come, come, I say, old fellor, stop your chant ; 
I cannot write a sentence — no one can't ! 
So pack up your trumps, 
And stir your stumps — " 
Says he, " I shan't ! " 

Down went the sash, 
As if devoted to " eternal smash," 
(Another illustration 
Of acted imprecation ;) 
While close at hand, uncomfortably near, 
The independent voice, so loud and strong, 

And clanging like a gong, 
Roared out again the everlasting song, 
" I have a silent sorrow here ! " 

The thing was hard to stand ! 

The Music-master could not stand it, 
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, 

As savage as a bandit, 
Made up directly to the tattered man, 
And thus in broken sentences began : 

" Com — com — I say ! 

You go away ! 
Into two parts my head you split — 
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, 

When I do play — 
You have no business in a place so still ! 
Can you not come another day ? " 

Says he, "I will." 

"No — no — you scream and bawl ! 
You must not come at all ! 
You have no right, by rights, to beg — 
You have not one off leg — 

You ought to work — you have not some complaint — 
You are not cripple in your back or bones — 
Your voice is strong enough to break some stones — " 
Savs he, " It aint." 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 375 

"I say you ought to labor I 
You are in a young case, 
You have not sixty years upon your face, 

To come and beg your neighbor — 
And discompose his music with a noise 
More worse than twenty boys — 
Look what a street it is for quiet ! 
No cart to make a riot, 

No coach, no horses, no postillion ; 
If you will sing, I say, it is not just 
To sing so loud." 
Says he, " I must ! 

I'm singing for the million! " hood. 



THE MAGPIE ; OR, BAD COMPANY. 

Let others, with poetic fire, 

In raptures praise the tuneful choir, 

The linnet, chaffinch, goldfinch, thrush, 

And every warbler of the bush ; 

I sing the mimic magpie's fame, 

In wicker cage, well fed and tame. 

In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore, 

A jolly tradesman named Tom More ; 

Generous and open as the day, 

But passionately fond of play ; 

No sounds to him such sweets afford 

As dice-box rattling o'er the board ; 

Bewitching hazard is the game 

For which he forfeits wealth and fame. 

In basket-prison hung on high, 
With dappled coat and watchful eye, 
A favorite magpie sees the play, 
And mimics every word they say — 
" Oh, how he nicks us ! " Tom More cries ; 
" Oh, how he nicks us ! " Mag replies. 
Tom throws, and eyes the glittering store, 
And as he throws, exclaims, ". Tom More ! " 
" Tom More ! " the mimic bird replies : 
The astonished gamesters lift their eyes, 
And wondering stare, and look around, 
As doubtful whence proceeds the sound. 



376 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

This dissipated life, of course, 

Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse ; 

Nor prayers nor promises prevail, 

To keep him from a dreary jail. 

And now, between each heart-felt sigh, 

Tom oft exclaims — " Bad company ! " 

Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate, 

Exclaims from out his wicker grate — 

" Bad company ! bad company ! " 

Then views poor Tom with curious eye, — 

And cheers his master's wretched hours 

By this display of mimic powers ; 

The imprisoned bird, though much caressed, 

Is still by anxious cares oppressed ; 

In silence mourns its cruel fate, 

And oft explores his prison gate. 

Observe through life, you '11 always find 
A fellow-feeling makes us kind ; 
So Tom resolves immediately 
To give poor Mag his liberty ; 
Then opes his cage, and, with a sigh, 
Takes one fond look, and lets him fly. 

Now Mag, once more with freedom blest, 
Looks round to find a place of rest ; 
To Temple Gardens wings his way, 
There perches on a neighboring spray. 

The gardener now, with busy cares, 
A curious seed for grass prepares : 
Yet spite of all his toil and pain, 
The hungry birds devour the grain. 

A curious net he does prepare, 
And lightly spreads the wily snare ; 
The feathered plunderers come in view, 
And Mag soon joins the thievish crew. 

The watchful gardener now stands by, 
With nimble hand and wary eye ; 
The birds begin their stol'n repast, 
The flying net secures them fast. 

The vengeful clown, now filled with ire, 
Does to a neighboring shed retire, 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 377 

And, having fast secured the doors 
And windows, next the net explores. 

Now, in revenge for plundered seed, 
Each felon he resolves shall bleed ; 
Then twists their little necks around, 
And casts them breathless on the ground. 

Mag, who with man was used to herd, 

Knew something more than common bird ; 

He therefore watched with anxious care, 

And slipped himself from out the snare, 

Then, perched on nail remote from ground, 

Observes how deaths are dealt around — 

" Oh, how he nicks us !" Maggy cries : 

The astonished gardener lifts his eyes ; 

With faltering voice and panting breath 

Exclaims, " Who 's there ? " — All still as death. 

His murderous work he does resume, 

And casts his eyes around the room 

With caution, and, at length does spy 

The magpie, perched on nail so high ! 

The wondering clown, from what he heard, 

Believes him something more than bird ; 

With fear impressed, does now retreat 

Toward the door with trembling feet ; 

Then says — " Thy name I do implore ? " 

The ready bird replies — " Tom More." 

" Oh dear ! " the frighted clown replies, 

With hair erect and staring eyes ! 

Half opening then the hovel door, 

He asks the bird one question more : 

" What brought you here ? " — with quick reply, 

Sly Mag rejoins — "Bad company ! " 

Out jumps the gardener in a fright, 
And runs away with all his might ; 
And, as he runs, impressed with dread, 
Exclaims, " Sure Satan 's in the shed ! " 

The wondrous tale a bencher hears, 
And sooths the man, and quells his fears, 
Gets Mag secured in wicker cage, 
Once more to spend his little rage ; 
In Temple Hall, now hung on high, 
Mag oft exclaims — "Bad company ! " anonymous, 

32 



378 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



ODE TO MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS. 

Thou happy, happy elf ! 
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) 

Thou tiny image of myself ! 
(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear ! ) 

Thou merry, laughing sprite, 

With spirits feather light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin — 
(Good heavens S the child is swallowing a pin !) 

Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
With antic toys so funnily bestruck, 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air — 
(The door ! the door ! he '11 tumble down the stair ! ) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore a-fire ! ) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy ! 

There goes my ink.) 

Thou cherub, but of earth ; 
Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail ! ) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows, 

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble ! — that 's his precious nose ! ) 

Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He '11 break the mirror with that skipping rope ! ) 

With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, 
(Where did he learn that squint ? ) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He '11 have that jug off with another shove ! ) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 

(Are those torn clothes his best ? ) 

Little epitome of man ! 
(He '11 climb upon the table, that 's his plan ! ) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life — 

(He 's got a knife ! ) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 379 

Play on, play on, 

My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick — 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick ! ) 

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He 's got the scissors, snipping at your gown ! ) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
( Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose ! ) 
Balmy and breathing music like the south, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth ! ) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star, — 
(I wish that window had an iron bar ! ) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, — 

(I '11 tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he 's sent above.) hood. 



THE OLD HAT. 



I had a hat — it was not all a hat — 
Part of the brim was gone, — yet still I wore 
It on, and people wondered, as I passed. 
Some turned to gaze, — others, just cast an eye, 
And soon withdrew it, as 't were in contempt. 
But still, my hat, although so fashionless, 
In complement extern, had that within, 
Surpassing show, — my head continued warm, 
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all 
The want (as has been said) of brim. 

A change came o'er the color of my hat. 
That which was black grew brown, and then men stared 
With both their eyes, (they stared with one before ;) 
The wonder now was twofold — and it seemed 
Strange, that things so torn, and old, should still 
Be worn, by one who might — but let that pass ! 
I had my reasons, which might be revealed, 
But for some counter reasons far more strong, 
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on. 
Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown, 
And frosty winter, came, — and went, and came, — 



380 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And still, through, all the seasons of two years, 

In park, in city, yea, in routs and halls, 

The hat was worn, and borne. Then folks grew wild 

With curiosity, — and whispers rose, 

And questions passed about — how one so trim 

In coats, boots, pumps, gloves, trowsers, could ensconce 

His caput in a covering so vile. 

A change came o'er the nature of my hat. 
Grease-spots appeared ; but still, in silence, on 
I wore it ; and then family and friends 
Glared madly at each other. There was one, 
Who said — but hold ! no matter what was said, 
A time may come when I — away, away — 
Not till the season 's ripe, can I reveal 
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds ; 
Till then, the world shall not pluck out the heart 
Of this my mystery. When I will — I will ! 
The hat was greasy now, and old, and torn — 
But torn, old, greasy, still I wore it on. 

A change came o'er the business of this hat. 
Women, and men, and children scowled on me ; 
My company was shunned — I was alone ! 
None would associate with such a hat — 
Friendship itself proved faithless, for a hat. 
She, that I loved, within whose gentle breast 
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death : 
Love's fires went out, extinguished by a hat. 
Of those that knew me best, some turned aside, 
And scudded down dark lanes, — one man did place 
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered, — 
Others, in horrid mockery, laughed outright ; 
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray, 
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat, 
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked. 
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lover, dogs ~ 
One thought pervaded all — it was, my hat. 

A change — it was the last — came o'er this hat. 
For lo ! at length, the circling months went round, 
The period was accomplished, and one day 
This tattered, brown, old greasy coverture, 
(Time had endeared its vileness,) was transferred 
To the possession of a wandering son 
Of Israel's fated race, and friends once more 
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze : 
Once more I went my way along, along, 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 38 i 

And plucked no wondering gaze ; the hand of scorn, 

With its annoying finger, men and dogs, 

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless ; 

And last, not least, of rescued blessings — love, 

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed 

A brand-new beaver of the Andre mold ; 

And then the laugh was mine, for then came out 

The secret of this strangeness — 't was a bet! 



THE WHISKERS. 



A petit maitre wooed a fair, 
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare ; 
But vainly had preferred his claim — 
The maiden owned no answering flame ; 
At length, by doubt and anguish torn, 
Suspense too painful to be borne, 
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled, 
And thus his ardent flame revealed : 

" Pity my grief, angelic fair ; 
±Jehold my anguish and despair ; 
For you, this heart must ever burn — 
bless me with a kind return ; 
My love, no language can express ; 
Reward it, then, with happiness : 
Nothing on earth but you I prize ; 
All else is trifling in my eyes ; 
And cheerfully would I resign 
The wealth of worlds, to call you mine, 
But if another gain your hand, 
Far distant from my native land, 
Far hence, from you and hope, I '11 fly, 
And in some foreign region die." 

The virgin heard, and thus replied : 
" If my consent to be your bride 
Will make you happy, then be blest ; 
But grant me, first, one small request — 
A sacrifice I must demand, 
And, in return, will give my hand." 

" A sacrifice ! speak its name ; 
For you I 'd forfeit wealth and fame ; 
Take my whole fortune — every cent — *■ *' 



382 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" 'T was something more than wealth I meant.'* 
" Must I the realms of Neptune trace ? 

speak the word — where'er the place ; 
For you, the idol of my soul, 

1 'd e'en explore the frozen pole, 
Arabia's sandy desert tread, 

Or trace the Tigris to its head." 

" Oh, no, dear sir, I do not ask 
So long a voyage, so hard a task ; 
You must — but ah ! the boon I want, 
I have no hope that you will grant." 

" Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire 
To be the world's imperial sire ? 
Express the wish, and here I vow, 
To place a crown upon your brow." 

" Sir, these are trifles," she replied ; 
" But, if you wish me for your bride, 
You must — but still I fear to speak — 
You '11 never grant the boon I seek." 

" say ! " he cried — " dear angel, say, 
What must I do, and I obey ; 
No longer rack me with suspense ; 
Speak your commands, and send me hence." 

"Well, then, dear, generous youth ! " she cries, 
" If thus my heart you really prize, 
And wish to link your fate with mine, 
On one condition I am thine : 
'T will then become my pleasing duty, 
To contemplate a husband's beauty; 
And, gazing on his manly face, 
His feelings and his wishes trace ; 
To banish thence each mark of care, 
And light a smile of pleasure there. 
let me, then — 't is all I ask — 
Commence at once the pleasing task ; 
let me, as becomes my place — 
Cut those huge whiskers from your face ! " 

She said — but oh, what strange surprise 
Was pictured in her lover's eyes ! 
Like lightning, from the ground he sprung, 
While wild amazement tied his tongue ; 
A statue, motionless, he gazed, 
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed. 
So looked the gallant Perseus, when 
Medusa's visage met his ken ; 



WIT HUMOR BURLESQUE. 383 

So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye 
Discerned an air-drawn dagger nigh ; 
And so the prince of Denmark stared, 
When first his father's ghost appeared. 

At length our hero silence broke, 
And thus, in wildest accents, spoke : 
" Cut off my whiskers ! O ye gods ! 
I 'd sooner lose my ears, by odds : 
Madam, I 'd not be so disgraced, 
So lost to fashion and to taste, 
To win an empress to my arms, 
Though blest with more than mortal charms. 
My whiskers ! zounds ! " — He said no more, 
But quick retreated through the door, 
And sought a less obdurate fair, 
To take the beau with all his hair. woodworth. 



A VERY POOR HORSE. 



Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin : a pair 
of old breeches, thrice turned : a pair of boots that have been 
candle cases, one buckled, another laced : an old rusty sword 
ta'en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and shapeless, 
with two broken points. His horse hipped with an old mothy 
saddle, the stirrups of no kindred ; besides, possessed with the 
glanders, and like to mose in the chine ; troubled with the lam- 
pass, infected with the fashions, full of wind-galls, sped with 
spavins, raied with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark 
spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots ; swayed in the 
back, and shoulder-shotten ; ne'er-legged before, and with a 
half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, 
being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often 
burst, and now repaired with knots ; one girt six times pieced, 
and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her 
name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with 
packthread. His lackey comes with him, for all the world capar- 
isoned like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey 
boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list ; an old 
hat, and The humor of forty fancies pricked in 't for a feather : 
a monster, a very monster in apparel ; and not like a Christian 
foot-boy, or a gentleman's lackey. shakspeare. 



384 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



FALSTAFF'S MORAL LECTURE 

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. — Harry, I 
do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how 
thou art accompanied : for though the chamomile, the more it is 
trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, 
the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy 
mother's word, partly my own opinion ; but chiefly, a villainous 
trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that 
doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the 
point : — Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at ? Shall 
the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries ? 
a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a 
thief, and take purses ? a question to be asked. There is a 
thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to 
many in our land by the name of pitch : this pitch, as ancient 
writers do report, doth defile ; so doth the company thou keep- 
est : ' for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in 
tears ; not in pleasure, but in passion ; not in words only, but in 
woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have 
often noted in thy company, but I know not his name — a good 
portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent ; of a cheerful look, a 
pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage ; and, as I think, his age 
some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to threescore ; and now I 
remember me, his name is Falstaff : if that man should be lewdly 
given, he deceiveth me ; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. 
If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the 
tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff : 
him keep with, the rest banish. shakspeare. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 385 



DIALOGUES — SERIOUS AND COMIC. 

THE TRIUMPH OF JULIUS CESAR. 

FLAVIUS MARULLUS — CITIZENS. 

Flav. Hence ; home, you idle creatures, get you home : 
Is this a holiday ? What ! know you not, 
Being mechanical, you ought not walk, 
Upon a laboring day, without the sign 
Of your profession ? — Speak, what trade art thou ? 

1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter. 

Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rale ? 
What dost thou with thy best apparel on ? — 
You, sir ; what trade are you ? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, 
I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. 

Mar. But what trade art thou ? Answer me directly. 

2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe con- 
science ; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. 

Mar. What trade, thou knave ; thou naughty knave, what 
trade? 

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me : yet, if 
you be out, sir, I can mend you. 

Mar. What meanest thou by that ? Mend me, thou saucy 
fellow ? 

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you. 

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl : I med- 
dle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters, but 
with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes ; when they 
are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever 
trod upon neat's leather, have gone upon my handiwork. 

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day ? Why dost 
thou lead these men about the streets ? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into 
more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Ceesar, 
and to rejoice in his triumph. 

Mar. Wherefore rejoice ? What conquest brings he home ? 
What tributaries follow him to Rome, 
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ? 
33 



386 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! 

you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 

Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 

Have you climbed up to walls and battlements. 

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, 

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 

The live-long day, with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome : 

And when you saw his chariot but appear, 

Have you not made an universal shout, 

That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, 

To hear the replication of your sounds, 

Made in her concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now call out a holiday ? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way, 

That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ? 

Begone ; 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

That needs must light on this ingratitude. 

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, 
Assemble all the poor men of your sort ; 
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears 
Into the channel, till the lowest stream 

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt Citizens.) 

See, whe'r their basest metal be not moved, 
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. 
Go you down that way toward the capitol ; 
This way will I : disrobe the images, 
If you do find them decked with ceremonies. 

Mar. May we do so ? 
You know, it is the feast of Lupercal. 

Flav. It is no matter ; let no images 
Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I '11 about, 
And drive away the vulgar from the streets : 
So do you, too, where you perceive them thick. 
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar's wing, 
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch ; 
Who else would soar above the view of men, ■ 
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 387 



CASSIUS INSTIGATING BRUTUS AGAINST OESAR. 



Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? 

Bru. Not I. 

Cas. I pray you, do. 

Bru. I am not gamesome : I do lack some part 
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ; 
I '11 leave you. 

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late : 
I have not from your eyes that gentleness, 
And show of love, as I was wont to have : 
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand 
Over your friend that loves you. 

Bru. Cassius, 

Be not deceived : if I have vail'd my look, 
I turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am, 
Of late, with passions of some difference, 
Conceptions only proper to myself, 
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors : 
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved ; 
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one ;) 
Nor construe any further my neglect, 
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, 
Forgets the shows of love to other men. 

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion, 
By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried 
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself, 
But by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. 'T is just : 
And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 
That you have no such mirrors, as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 
That you might see your shadow. I have heard, 
Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
(Except immortal Caesar,) speaking of Brutus, 
And groaning underneath this age's yoke, 
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes. 

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, 



388 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

That you would have me seek into myself 
For that which is not in me ? 

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear : 
And, since you know you cannot see yourself 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 
Will modestly discover to yourself 
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus : 
Were I a common laugher, or did use 
To stale with ordinary oaths my love 
To every new protester ; if you know 
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, 
And after scandal them ; or if you know 
That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. (Flourish and shout.) 

Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear the people 
Choose Csesar for their king. 

Cas. Ay, do you fear it ? 

Then must I think you would not have it so. 

Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well : — 
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ? 
What is it that you would impart to me ? 
If it be aught toward the general good, 
Set honor in one eye, and death i' the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently : 
For, lei the gods so speed me, as I love 
The name of honor more than I fear death. 

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
As well as I do know your outward favor. 
Well, honor is the subject of my story. — 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
Caesar said to me, " Darest thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point ? " Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 
The torrent roared : and we did buffet it 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 389 

With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 

Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 

I, as ^Eneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber 

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 

If Csesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 't is true, this god did shake : 

His coward lips did from their color fly ; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 

Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

Alas ! it cried, " Give me some drink, Titinius," 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. (Shout. Flourish.) 

Bru. Another general shout ! 
I do believe that these applauses are 
For some new honors that are heaped on Caesar. 

Gas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world 
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 
Men at some time are masters of their fates : 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus, and Caesar. What should be in that Caesar ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure them, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. (Shout.) 

Now in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art shamed : 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 



390 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But it was famed with more than with one man ? 

When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 

That her wide walks encompassed but one man ? 

Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, 

When there is in it but one only man. 

Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked 

The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 

As easily as a king. 

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ; 
What you would work me to, I have some aim ; 
How I have thought of this, and of these times 
I shall recount hereafter : for this present, 
I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further moved. What you have said, 
I will consider ; what you have to say, 
I will with patience hear : and find a time 
Both meet to hear, and answer, such high things. 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this ; — 
Brutus had rather be a villager, 
Than to repute himself a son of Rome, 
Under these hard conditions as this time 
Is like to lay upon us. 

Cas. I am glad that my weak words 
Have struck but this much show of fire from Brutus. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE OFFERING OF THE CROWN TO CAESAR. 

BRUTUS CASSIUS CASCA ANTONY C2ESAR. 

Bru. The games are done, and Csesar is returning. 

[Enter Ccesar and his Train.) 

Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve ; 
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you 
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 

Bru. I will do so. But look you, Cassius, 
The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, 
And all the rest look like a chidden train : 
Calphurnia's cheek is pale ; and Cicero 
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes, 
As we have seen him in the capitol, 
Being crossed in conference by some senators. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 391 

Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is. 

Cces. Antonius, — 

Ant. Caesar. 

Cces. Let me have men about me that are fat ; 
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights : 
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look ; 
He thinks too much : such men are dangerous. 

Ant. Fear him not, Caesar, he 's not dangerous ; 
He is a noble Roman, and well given. 

Cces. Would he were fatter : — But I fear him not : 
Yet, if my name were liable to fear, 
I do not know the man I should avoid 
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much ; 
He is a great observer, and he looks 
Quite through the deeds of men : he loves no plays, 
As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a sort, 
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit 
That could be moved to smile at anything. 
Such men as he be never at heart's ease, 
"Whiles they behold a greater than themselves ; 
And therefore are they very dangerous. 
I rather tell thee what is to be feared, 
Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. 
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, 
And tell me truly what thou thinkest of him. 

(Exeunt Ccesar and his Train. Casca stays behind.) 

Casca. You pulled me by the cloak ; — would you speak 
with me ? 

Bru. Ay, Casca ; tell us what hath chanced to-day, 
That Caesar looks so sad. 

Casca. Why you were with him, were you not ? 

Bru. I should not then ask Casca what hath chanced . 

Casca. Why, there was a crown offered him : and being 
offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus ; and 
then the people fell a shouting. 

Bru. What was the second noise for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Cas. They shouted thrice : what was the last cry for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Bru. Was the crown offered him thrice ? 

Casca. Ay, marry, was 't, and he put it by thrice, every 
time gentler than other ; and at every putting by, mine honest 
neighbors shouted. 

Cas. Who offered him the crown ? 



392 T T 1E NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Casca. Why, Antony. 

Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. 

Casca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it : it 
was mere foolery. I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer 
him a crown ; — yet 't was not a crown neither, 't was one of 
these coronets ; — and, as I told you, he put it by once : but for 
all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he 
offered it to him again ; then he put it by again : but, to my 
thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off it. And then he 
offered it the third time ; he put it the third time by: and still, 
as he refused it, the rabblement hooted, and clapped their 
chopped hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered 
such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, 
that it had almost choked Caesar ; for he swooned, and fell down 
at it : and, for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of 
opening my lips, and receiving the bad air. 

Cas. But, soft, I pray you : what, did Caesar swoon ? 

Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at 
mouth, and was speechless. 

Bru. 'T is very like : he hath the falling sickness. 

Cas. 'No, Caesar hath it not ; but you, and I, 
And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness. 

Casca. I know not what you mean by that ; but, I am sure, 
Caesar fell down. If the tagrag people did not clap him, and 
hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they 
used to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. 

Bru. What said he when he came unto himself ? 

Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the 
common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope 
his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut. An I had been 
a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a 
word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues : — and so 
he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, If he had 
done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think 
it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, 
cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their 
hearts : but there 's no heed to be taken of them ; if Caesar had 
stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. 

Bru. And after that he came, thus sad, away ? 

Casca. Ay. 

Cas. Did Cicero say anything ? 

Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. 

Cas. To what effect ? 

Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, I '11 ne'er look you i' the 
face again : — but those that understood him smiled at one another, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 393 

and shook their heads ; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to 
me. I could tell you more news too : Marullus and Flavius, 
for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare 
you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it. 

Cas. Will you sup with me to-night, Casca ? 

Casca. JSTo, I am promised forth. 

Cas. Will you dine with me to-morrow ? 

Casca. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your 
dinner worth the eating. 

Cas. Good ; I will expect you. 

Casca. Do so : farewell, both. (Exit Casca.) 

Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be ! 
He was quick mettle when he went to school. 

Cas. So is he now, in execution 
Of any bold or noble enterprise, 
However he puts on this tardy form. 
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 
Which gives men stomach to digest his words 
With better appetite. 

Bru. And so it is. For this time I will leave you : 
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, 
I will come home to you ; or, if you will, 
Come home with me, and I will wait for you. 

Cas. I will do so : — till then, think of the world. 

(Exit Brutus.) 
Well, Brutus, thou art noble ; yet, I see, 
Thy honorable metal may be wrought 
From that it is disposed. Therefore 't is meet 
That noble minds keep ever with their likes : 
For who so firm that cannot be seduced ? 
Caesar doth bear me hard ; but he loves Brutus : 
If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, 
He should not humor me. I will this night, 
In several hands, in at his windows throw, 
As if they came from several citizens, 
Writings all tending to the great opinion 
That Rome holds of his name ; wherein obscurely 
Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at : 
And, after this, let Caesar seat him sure ; 
For we will shake him, or worse days endure. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



394 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



TPIE CONSPIRACY. 



{Thunder and Lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca, with his 
sword drawn, and Cicero.) 

Cic. Good even, Casca. Brought you Csesar home ! 
Why are you breathless ? and why stare you so ? 

Casca. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth 
Shakes, like a thing unfinn ? Cicero, 
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 
Have rived the knotty oaks ; and I have seen 
The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
To be exalted with the threatening clouds : 
But never till to-night, never till now, 
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 
Either there is a civil strife in heaven ; 
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 
Incenses them to send destruction. 

Cic. Why, saw you anything more wonderful ? 

Casca. A common slave (you know him well by sight) 
Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn 
Like twenty torches joined ; and yet his hand, 
Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. 
Besides, (I have not since put up my sword,) 
Against the capitol I met a Hon, 
Who glared upon me, and went surly by, 
Without annoying me. And there were drawn 
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, 
Transformed with their fear ; who swore they saw 
Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. 
And, yesterday, the bird of night did sit, 
Even at noonday, upon the market-place, 
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, 
" These are their seasons, — they are natural ; " 
For, I believe they are portentous things 
Unto the climate that they point upon. 

Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time : 
But men may construe things after their fashion, 
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. 
Comes Csesar to the capitol to-morrow ? 

Casca. He doth ; for he did bid Antonius 
Send word to you, he would be there to-morrow. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 395 

Cic. Good night then, Casca : this disturbed sky- 
Is not to walk in. 

Casca. Farewell, Cicero. (Exit Cicero.) 

(Enter Cassius.) 

Cas. Who 's there ? 

Casca. A Roman. 

Cas. Casca, by your voice. 

Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this ? 

Cas. A very pleasing night to honest men. 

Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace so ? 

Cas. Those, that have known the earth so full of faults. 
For my part, I have walked about the streets, 
Submitting me unto the perilous night ; 
And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, 
Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone : 
And, when the cross blue lightning seemed to open 
The breast of heaven, I did present myself 
Even in the aim and very flash of it. 

Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens ? 
It is the part of men to fear and tremble, 
When the most mighty gods, by tokens, send 
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 

Cas. You are dull, Casca ; and those sparks of life 
That should be in a Roman you do want, 
Or else you use not : You look pale, and gaze, 
And put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, 
To see the strange impatience of the heavens : 
But if you would consider the true cause, 
Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts ; 
Why birds, and beasts, from quality and kind ; 
Why old men, fools, and children calculate ; 
Why all these things change, from their ordinance, 
Their natures and pre-formed faculties, 
To monstrous quality ; why, you shall find, 
That heaven hath infused them with these spirits, 
To make them instruments of fear, and warning, 
Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, 
Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night ; 
That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars 
As doth the lion in the capitol : 
A man no mightier than thyself, or me, 
In personal action ; yet prodigious grown, 
And fearful as these strange eruptions are. 

Casca. 'T is Caesar that you mean : is it not, Cassius ? 

Cas. Let it be who it is : for Romans now 



396 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors ; 
But woe the while, our fathers' minds are dead, 
And we are governed with our mothers' spirits ; 
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. 

Casca. Indeed, they say, the senators to-morrow 
Mean to establish Caesar as a king : 
And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, 
In every place, save here in Italy. 

Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then ; 
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius : 
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong ; 
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat : 
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, 
Nor airless dungeons, nor strong links of iron, 
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit : 
But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 
Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 
If I know this, know all the world besides, 
That part of tyranny that I do bear, 
I can shake off at pleasure. 

Casca. So can I : 

So every bondman in his own hand bears 
The power to cancel his captivity. 

Cas. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then ? 
Poor man ! I know he would not be a wolf, 
But that he sees the Romans are but sheep : 
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. 
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire, 
Begin it with weak straws : what trash is Rome, 
What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves 
For the base matter to illuminate 
So vile a thing as Caesar ? But, grief ! 
Where hast thou led me ? I, perhaps, speak this 
Before a willing bondman : then I know 
My answer must be made : — but I am armed, 
And dangers are to me indifferent. 

Casca. You speak to Casca ; and to such a man, 
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my hand : 
Be factious for redress of all these griefs ; 
And I will set this foot of mine as far 
As who goes farthest. 

Cas. There 's a bargain made. 

Now know you, Casca, I have moved already 
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans, 
To undergo, with me, an enterprise 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 397 

Of honorable-dangerous consequence ; 
And I do know, by this, they stay for me 
In Pompey's porch : for now, this fearful night, 
There is no stir, or walking in the streets ; 
And the complexion of the element 
Is favored, like the work we have in hand, 
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 
{Enter Cinna.) 

Casca. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. 

Cos. 'T is Cinna, I do know him by his gait. 
He is a friend. — Cinna, where haste you so ? 

Gin. To find out you. Who 's that ? Metellus Cimber ? 

Gas. No, it is Casca ; one incorporate 
To our attempts. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? 

Gin. I am glad on 't. What a fearful night is this ? 
There 's two or three of us have seen strange sights. 

Gas. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? Tell me. 

Gin. Yes, 

You are. Cassius, if you could but win 
The noble Brutus to our party — 

Gas. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, 
And look you lay it in the prsetor's chair, 
Where Brutus may but find it ; and throw this 
In at his window : set this up with wax 
Upon old Brutus' statue : all this done, 
Repair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us. 
Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there ? 

Gin. All but Metellus Cimber ; and he 's gone 
To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, - 
And so bestow these papers as you bade me. 

Gas. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre. (Exit Cinna.) 
Come, Casca, you and I will, yet, ere day, 
See Brutus at his house : three parts of him 
Is ours already ; and the man entire, 
Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. 

Casca. Oh, he sits high in all the people's hearts : 
And that, which would appear offense in us, 
His countenance, like richest alchemy, 
Will change to virtue, and to worthiness. 

Cas. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, 
You have right well conceited. Let us go, 
For it is after midnight ; and, ere day, 
We will awake him, and be sure of him. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



398 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE SHIPWRECKED PRINCE. 

PERICLES — THREE FISHERMEN. 

(Enter Pericles, wet.) 
Per. Yet cease your ire, ye angry stars of heaven ! 
Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man 
Is but a substance that must yield to you ; 
And I, as fits my nature, do obey you ; 
Alas ! the sea hath cast me on the rocks, 
Washed me from shore to shore, and left me breath, 
Nothing to think on, but ensuing death : 
Let it suffice the greatness of your powers, 
To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes : 
And having thrown him from your wat'ry grave, 
Here to have death in peace, is all he '11 crave. 
[Enter three Fishermen.) 

1 Fish. What, ho, Pilche ! 

2 Fish. Ho ! come, and bring away the nets. 
1 Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say ! 

3 Fish. What say you, master ? 

1 Fish. Look how thou stirrest now ! come away, or I '11 fetch 
thee with a wannion. 

3 Fish. 'Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that 
were cast away before us, even now. 

1 Fish. Alas, poor souls ! it grieved my heart to hear what 
pitiful cries they made to us, to help them, when, well-a-day, 
we could scarce help ourselves. 

3 Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much, when I saw the 
porpus, how he bounced and tumbled ? they say, they are half 
fish, half flesh : a plague on them, they ne'er come, but I look 
to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. 

1 Fish. Why, as men do a-land ; the great ones eat up the 
little ones : I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as 
to a whale ; 'a plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before 
him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. Such whales 
have I heard on a' the land, who never leave gaping, till they 've 
swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all. 

Per. A pretty moral. 

3 Fish. But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have 
been that day in the belfry. 

2 Fish. Why, man ? 

3 Fish. Because he should have swallowed me too : and when 
I had been in his stomach, I would have kept such a jangling of 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 399 

the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, 
church, and parish, up again. But if the good king Simonides 
were of my mind — 

Per. Simonides ? 

3 Fish. We would purge the land of these drones, that rob 
the bee of her honey. 

Per. How from the finny subject of the sea 
These fishers tell the infirmities of men ; 
And from their wat'ry empire recollect 
All that may men approve, or men detect ! 
Peace be at your labor, honest fishermen. 

2 Fish. Honest ! good fellow, what 's that ? if it be a day fits 
you, scratch it out of the calendar, and nobody will look after it. 

Per. Nay, see, the sea hath cast upon your coast — 

2 Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea, to cast thee in 
our way ! 

Per. A man whom both the waters and the wind, 
In that vast tennis-court, hath made the ball 
For them to play upon, entreats you pity him ; 
He asks of you, that never used to beg. 

1 Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg ? here 's them in our 
country of Greece, gets more with begging, than we can do with 
working. 

2 Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes, then ? 
Per. I never practiced it. 

2 Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve sure ; for here 's nothing 
to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for 't. 

Per. What I have been, I have forgot to know ; 
But what I am, want teaches me to think on ; — 
A man shrunk up with cold ; my veins are chill, 
And have no more of life, than may suffice 
To give my tongue that heat, to ask you help ; 
Which, if you shall refuse, when I am dead, 
For I am a man, pray see me buried. 

1 Fish. Die, quoth-a ? Now, gods forbid ! I have a gown 
here ; come, put it on ; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a 
handsome fellow ! Come, thou shalt go home, and we '11 have 
flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and, moreo'er, puddings 
and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. 

Per. I thank you, sir. 

2 Fish. Hark you, my friend ; you said you could not beg. 
Per. I did but crave. 

2 Fish. But crave ? Then I '11 turn craver too, and so I shall 
'scape whipping. 

Per. Why, are all your beggars whipped, then ? 



400 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

2 Fish. Oh, not all, my friend, not all ; for if all your beggars 
were whipped, I would wish no better office, than to be beadle. 
But, master, I '11 go draw up the net. 

[Exeunt two of the Fishermen.) 

Per. How well this honest mirth becomes their labor ? 

1 Fish. Hark you, sir ! do you know where you are ? 

Per. Not well. 

1 Fish. Why, I '11 tell you : this is called Pentapolis, and our 
king, the good Simonides. 

Per. The good king Simonides, do you call him ? 

1 Fish. Ay, sir ; and he deserves to be so called, for his 
peaceable reign and good government. 

Per. He is a happy king, since from his subjects 
He gains the name of good, by his government. 
How far is his court distant from this shore ? 

1 Fish. Marry, sir, half a day's journey : and I '11 tell you 
he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her birthday; and 
there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world, 
to just and tourney for her love. 

Per. Did but my fortunes equal my desires, 
I 'd wish to make one there. 

1 Fish. Oh, sir, things must be as they may ; and what a man 
cannot get, he may lawfully deal for — his wife's soul. 

(Reenter the two Fishermen, drawing up a net.) 

2 Fish. Help, master, help : here 's a fish hangs in the net, 
like a poor man's right in the law ; 't will hardly come out. Ha ! 
bots on 't, 't is come at last, and 't is turned to a rusty armor. 

Per. An armor, friends ! I pray you let me see it. 
Thanks, fortune, yet, that after all my crosses, 
Thou giv'st me somewhat to repair myself; 
And, though it was mine own, part of mine heritage, 
Which my dead father did bequeath to me, 
With this strict charge, (even as he left his life,) 
" Keep it, my Pericles ; it hath been a shield 
'Twixt me and death; " and pointed to this brace : 
" For that it saved me, keep it ; in like necessity, 
Which gods protect thee from ! it may defend thee." 
It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it ; 
Till the rough seas, that spare not any man, 
Took it in rage, though calmed, they give 't again : 
I thank thee for 't ; my shipwreck 's now no ill, 
Since I have here my father's gift by will. 

1 Fish. What mean you, sir ? 

Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth ; 
For it was sometime target to a king ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 401 

I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly, 

And for his sake I wish the having of it ; 

And that you 'd guide me to your sovereign's court, 

Where with 't I may appear a gentleman ; 

And if that ever my low fortune 's better, 

I '11 pay your bounties ; till then, rest your debtor. 

1 Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady ? 

Per. I '11 show the virtue I have borne in arms. 

1 Fish. Why, do ye take it, and the gods give thee good on 't ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE GREEKS BEFORE TROY. 

AJAX ACHILLES PATROCLUS THERSITES. 

Ajax. Thersites, — 

Ther. Agamemnon — how if he had boils? full, all over, 
generally ? 

Ajax. Thersites, — 

Ther. And those boils did run ? — Say so, — did not the 
general run then ? Were not that a botchy core ? 

Ajax. Dog, — 

Ther. Then would come some matter from him ; I see none 
now. 

Ajax. Thou she -wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, 
then. (Strikes him.) 

Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel, beef- 
witted lord ! 

Ajax. Speak, then, thou unsalted leaven, speak ! I will beat 
thee into handsomeness. 

Ther. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness ; but, I 
think, thy horse will sooner con an oration, than thou learn a 
prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou ? a red 
murrain o' thy jade's tricks ! 

Ajax. Toads-stool, learn me the proclamation. 

( Striking him again. ) 

Ther. Dost thou think I have no sense, that thou strikest me 
thus ? 

Ajax. The proclamation, — 

Ther. Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think. 

Ajax. Do not, porcupine, do not ; my fingers itch. 

Ther. I would thou didst itch from head to foot, and I had 
the scratching of thee ; I would make thee the loathsomest scab 
34 



402 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest 
as slow as another. 

Ajax. I say, the proclamation, — 

Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles ; 
and thou art as full of envy at his greatness, as Cerberus is at 
Proserpina's beauty, ay, that thou barkest at him. 

Ajax. Mistress Thersites ! 

Ther. Thou shouldst strike him. 

Ajax. Cobloaf ! 

Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor 
breaks a biscuit. 

Ajax. You cur ! [Beating him.) 

Ther. Do, do. 

Ajax. Thou stool for a witch ! 

Ther. Ay, do, do ; thou sodden witted lord ! thou hast no 
more brain than I have in mine elbows ; an assinego may tutor 
thee : Thou scurvy valiant ass, thou art here put to thrash Tro- 
jans ; and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit 
like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at 
thy heel, and tell what thou art, by inches : thou thing of no 
bowels, thou ! 

Ajax. You dog ! 

Ther. You scurvy lord ! 

Ajax. You cur! [Beating him.) 

Ther. Mars his idiot ! do, rudeness ; do, camel ; do, do. 
[Enter Achilles and Patroclus.) 

Achil. Why, how now, Ajax ? wherefore do you thus ? How 
now, Thersites ? what 's the matter, man ? 

Ther. You see him there, do you ? 

Achil. Ay ; what 's the matter ? 

Ther. Nay, look upon him. 

Achil. So I do ; what 's the matter ? 

Ther. Nay, but regard him well. 

Achil. Well, why I do so. 

Ther. But yet you look not well upon him, for whosoever you 
take him to be, he is Ajax. 

Achil. I know that, fool. 

Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. 

Ajax. Therefore I beat thee. 

Ther. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters ! his eva- 
sions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his brain, more than 
he has beat my bones ; I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, 
and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. 
This lord, Achilles, Ajax — who wears his wit in his stomach and 
his liver in his head — I '11 tell you what I say of him. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 403 

Achil. What? 

Ther. I say, this Ajax — [interposes.) 

Achil. Nay, good Ajax. (Ajax offers to strike him, but Achilles 

Ther. Has not so much wit •— 

Achil. Nay, I must hold you. 

Ther. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he 
comes to fight. 

Achil. Peace, fool. 

Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will 
not : he there ; that he ; look you there. 

Ajax. O thou rascal cur, I shall — 

Achil. Will you set your wit to a fool's ? 

Ther. No, I warrant you, for a fool's will shame it. 

Patr. Good words Thersites. 

Achil. What 's the quarrel ? 

Ajax. I bade the vile owl, go learn me the tenor of the proc- 
lamation, and he rails upon me. 

Ther. I serve thee not. 

Ajax. Well, go to, go to. 

Ther. I serve here voluntary. 

Achil. Your last service was sufferance, 't was not voluntary ; 
no man is beaten voluntary ; Ajax was here the voluntary, and 
you as under an impress. 

Ther. Even so ? a great deal of your wit, too, lies in your 
sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch, 
if he knock out either of your brains ; 'a were as good crack a 
fusty nut with no kernel. 

Achil. What, with me, too, Thersites ? 

Ther. There's Ulysses, and old Nestor, — whose wit was 
moldy, ere your grandsires had nails on their toes, — yoke you 
like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars. 

Achil, What, what ? 

Ther. Yes, good sooth ; to, Achilles ! to, Ajax ! to ! 

Ajax. I shall cut out your tongue. 

Ther. 'T is no matter ; I shall speak as much as thou afterward. 

Patr. No more words, Thersites ; peace ! 

Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, 
shall I ? 

Achil. There 's for you, Patroclus. 

Ther. I will see you hanged, like clotpoles ere I come any 
more to your tents ; I will keep where there is wit stirring, and 
leave the faction of fools. (Exit.) 

Patr. A good riddance. 

Achil. Marry, this, sir, is proclaimed through all our host : 
That Hector, by the first hour of the sun, 



404 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Will, with a trumpet, 'twixt our tents and Troy, 
To-morrow morning, call some knight to arms, 
That hath a stomach ; and such a one, that dare 
Maintain — I know not what ; 't is trash ; farewell. 

Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer ? 

Achil. I know not, it is put to lottery ; otherwise, 
He knew his man. 

Ajax. Oh, meaning you : — I '11 go learn more of it. 



SHAKSPEARE. 



ACHILLES' MESSAGE. 

ACHILLES PATROCLTJS THERSITES. 

Pair. To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you : 
A woman impudent and mannish grown 
Is not more loathed than an effeminate man 
In time of action. I stand condemned for this ; 
They think, my little stomach to the war, 
And your great love to me, restrains you thus : 
Sweet, rouse yourself ; and the weak wanton Cupid 
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, 
And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, 
Be shook to air. 

Achil. Shall Ajax fight with Hector ? 

Pair. Ay ; and, perhaps, receive much honor by him. 

Achil. I see, my reputation is at stake ; 
My fame is shrewdly gored. 

Patr. 0, then beware ; 

Those wounds heal ill, that men do give themselves : 
Omission to do what is necessary 
Seals a commission to a blank of danger ; 
And danger, like an ague, subtly taints 
Even then when we sit idly in the sun. 

Achil. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus : 
I '11 send the fool to Ajax, and desire him 
To invite the Trojan lords, after the combat. 
To see us here unarmed : I have a woman's longing, 
An appetite that I am sick withal, 
To see great Hector in his weeds of peace ; 
To talk with him, and to behold his visage, 
Even to my full view. A labor saved ! (Enter Thersites.) 

Ther. A wonder ! 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 405 

Achil. What? 

Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself. 

Achil. How so ? 

Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector ; and is so 
prophetically proud of an heroical cudgeling, that he raves in 
saying nothing. 

Achil. How can that be ? 

Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a stride, 
and a stand ; ruminates, like an hostess that hath no arithmetic 
but her brain to set down her reckoning : bites his lip with a 
politic regard, as who should say — there were wit in his head, 
an 't would out ; and so there is ; but it lies as coldly in him as 
fire in a flint which will not show with knocking. The man 's 
undone for ever ; for if Hector break not his neck i' the combat, 
he '11 break it himself in vainglory. He knows not me : I said, 
"Good morrow, Ajax," and he replies, "Thanks, Agamemnon." 
What think you of this man, that takes me for the general ? 
He is grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. A plague 
of opinion ! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather 
jerkin. 

Achil. Thou must be my embassador to him, Thersites. 

Ther, Who ? I ? why, he '11 answer nobody ; he professes not 
answering ; speaking is for beggars ; he wears his tongue in his 
arms. I will put on his presence ; let Patroclus make demands 
to me ; you shall see the pageant of Ajax. 

Achil. To him, Patroclus: tell him — I humbly desire the 
valiant Ajax to invite the most victorious Hector to come un- 
armed to my tent ; and to procure safe-conduct for his person, 
of the magnanimous, and most illustrious, six-or-seven-times- 
honored, captain-general of the Grecian arm}^, Agamemnon. 
Do this. 

Pair. Jove bless great Ajax. 

Ther. Humph! 

Pair. I come from the worthy Achilles, — 

Ther. Ha ! 

Pair. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his 
tent ! — 

Ther. Humph ! 

Pair. And to procure safe-conduct from Agamemnon. 

Ther. Agamemnon? 

Pair. Ay, my lord. 

Ther. Ha! 

Pair. What say you to 't ? 

Ther. God be wi' you, with all my heart. 

Pair. Your answer, sir. 



406 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ther. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go 
one way or other ; howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. 

Pair. Your answer, sir. 

Ther. Fare you well, with all my heart. 

Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he ? 

Ther. No, but he 's out o' tune thus. What music will be in 
him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not ; but, 
I am sure, none — unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to 
make catlings on. 

Achil. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight. 

Ther. Let me bear another to his horse ; for that 's the more 
capable creature. 

Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred ; 
And I myself see not the bottom of it. 

Ther. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, thai 
I might water an ass at it ! I had rather be a tick in a sheep, 
than such a valiant ignorance. shakspeare. 



BANISHMENT OF THE DUKE OF KENT. 

LEAR KENT. 

Kent. Eoyal Lear, 

Whom I have ever honored as my king, 
Loved as my father, as my master followed, 
As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 

Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft. 

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
The region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly 
When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man ? 
Think' st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak, 
When power to flattery bows ? To plainness honor 's bound, 
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom ; 
And, in thy best consideration, check 
This hideous rashness : answer my life my judgment ; 
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; 
Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sound 
Reverbs no hollowness. 

Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 

Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
To wage against thine enemies ; nor fear to lose it, 
Thy safety being the motive. 

Lear. Out of my sight ! 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 407 

Kent. See better, Lear, and let me still remain 
The true blank of thine eye. 

Lear. Now, by Apollo, — 

Kent. Now, by Apollo, king, 

Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. 

Lear. (Laying his hand on his sword.) vassal ! miscreant ! 

Kent. Do ; 
Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow 
Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift ; 
Or, whilst I can vent clamor from my throat, 
I '11 tell thee, thou dost evil. 

Lear. Hear me, recreant ! 

On thine allegiance hear me ! — 
Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, 
(Which we durst never yet,) and, with strained pride, 
To come betwixt our sentence and our power ; 
(Which nor our nature nor our place can bear ;) 
Our potency make good, take thy reward. 
Five days we do allot thee, for provision 
To shield thee from diseases of the world ; 
And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back 
Upon our kingdom : if, on the tenth day following, 
Thy banished trunk be found in our dominions, 
The moment is thy death. Away ! by Jupiter, 
This shall not be revoked. 

Kent. Fare thee well, king : since thus thou wilt appear, 
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. — 
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, ( To Cordelia.) 
That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said ! — 
And your large speeches may your deeds approve, 

(To Regan and^Ooneril.) 
That good effects may spring from deeds of love. 
Thus Kent, princes, bids you all adieu ; 
He '11 shape his old course in a country new. shakspeare. 



THE FOOL'S REMONSTRANCE. 

LEAR KENT — FOOL GENTLEMAN. 

Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these letters : acquaint 
my daughter no further with anything you know, than comes 
from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not 
speedy, I shall be there before you. 



408 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your 
letter. (Exit.) 

Fool. If a man's brains were in his heels, were 't not in dan- 
ger of kibes ? 

Lear. Ay, boy. 

Fool. Then, I pr'y thee, be merry ; thy wit shall not go slip- 
shod. 

Lear. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Fool. Shalt see, thy other daughter will use thee kindly ; for 
though she 's as like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I can 
tell what I can tell. 

Lear. Why, what canst thou tell, my boy ? 

Fool. She will taste as like this, as a crab does to a crab. 
Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i' the middle of his face ? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Why, to keep his eyes on either side his nose ; that what 
a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. 

Lear. I did her wrong : — 

Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell ? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Nor I neither ; but I can tell why a snail has a house. 

Lear. Why? 

Fool. Why, to put his head in ; not to give it away to his 
daughters, and leave his horns without a case. 

Lear. I will forget my nature. — So kind a father ! — Be my 
horses ready ? 

Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the 
seven stars are no more than seven, is a pretty reason. 

Lear. Because they are not eight ? 

Fool. Yes, indeed ; thou wouldst make a good fool. 

Lear. To take it again perforce ! — Monster ingratitude ! 

Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I 'd have thee beaten for 
being old before thy time. 

Lear. How 's that ? 

Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old, before thou hadst 
been wise. 

Lear. 0, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! 
Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad ! 
(Enter Gentleman.) 
How now ! Are the horses ready ? 

Gent. Ready, my lord. 

Lear. Come, boy. 

Fool. She that is maid now, and laughs at my departure, 
Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 409 



THE LOYAL FOLLOWER. 



{Enter Kent, disguised.) 

Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow, 
That can my speech diffuse, my good intent 
May carry through itself to that full issue 
For which I razed my likeness. — Now, banished Kent, 
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemned, 
(So may it come !) thy master, whom thou lovest, 
Shall find thee full of labors. 

[Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights, and Attendants.) 

Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner ; go, get it ready. 
(Exit an Attendant.) How now, what art thou ? 

Kent. A man, sir. 

Lear. What dost thou profess ? What wouldst thou with us? 

Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem ; to serve him 
truly, that will put me in trust ; to love him that is honest ; to 
converse with him that is wise, and says little ; to fear judgment ; 
to fight, when I cannot choose ; and to eat no fish. 

Lear. What art thou ? 

Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king. 

Lear. If thou be as poor for a subject, as he is for a king, thou 
art poor enough. What wouldst thou ? 

Kent. Service. 

Lear. Who wouldst thou serve ? 

Kent. You. 

Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ? 

Kent. No, sir ; but you have that in your countenance, which 
I would fain call master. 

Lear. What 's that ? 

Kent. Authority. 

Lear. What services canst thou do ? 

Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale 
in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly : that which 
ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in ; and the best of me 
is diligence. 

Lear. How old art thou ? 

Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing ; nor so 
old, to dote on her for anything. I have years on my back, 
forty-eight. 

Lear. Follow me ; thou shalt serve me ; if I like thee no worse 
after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. shakspeare. 

35 



410 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE ANGER OF KENT. 

KENT — CORNWALL — REGAN EDMUND GLOSTER — STEWARD. 

Stew. Good dawning to thee, friend : — art of the house ? 

Kent. Ay. 

Stew. Where may we set our horses ? 

Kent. V the mire. 

Stew. Pr'y thee, if thou love me, tell me. 

Kent. I love thee not. 

Stew. Why, then I care not for thee. 

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee 
care for me. 

Stew. Why dost thou use me thus ? I know th&e. not. 

Kent. Fellow, I know thee. 

Stew. What dost thou know me for ? 

Kent. A knave ; a rascal, an eater of broken meats ; a base, 
proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy 
worsted-stocking knave ; a lily-livered, action-taking knave ; a 
glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue ; one-trunk inherit- 
ing slave ; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, 
and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, 
pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel : one whom I 
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least 
syllable of thy addition. 

Stew. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on 
one, that is neither known of thee, nor knows thee ? 

Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou 
knowest me ? Is it two days ago, since I tripped up thy heels, 
and beat thee, before the king ? Draw, you rogue : for, though 
it be night, the moon shines ; I '11 make a sop o' the moonshine 
of you. Draw, you cullionly barber-monger, draw. 

{Drawing his sword.) 

Stew. Away ; I have nothing to do with thee. 

Kent. Draw, you rascal : you come with letters against the 
king ; and take vanity the puppet's part, against the royalty of 
her father. Draw, you rogue, or I '11 so carbonado your shanks — 
draw, you rascal ; come your ways. 

Steiv. Help, ho ! murder ! help ! 

Kent. Strike, you slave ; stand, rogue, stand ; you neat slave, 
strike. (Beating him.) 

Stew. Help, ho ! murder ! murder ! 

(Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Oloster, and Servants.) 

Edm. How now ? What 's the matter ? Part. 



DIALOGUES — SERIOUS AND COMIC. 411 

Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you please ; come, I '11 flesh 
you ; come on, young master. 

Glo. Weapons ! arms ! What 's the matter here ? 

Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives ; 
He dies, that strikes again. What is the matter ? 

Reg. The messengers from our sister and the king. 

Corn. What is your difference ? speak. 

Stew. I am scarce in breath, my lord. 

Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirred your valor. You 
cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee ; a tailor made thee. 

Corn. Thou art a strange fellow : a tailor make a man ? 

Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir ; a stone-cutter, or a painter, could 
not have made him so ill, though they had been but two hours 
at the trade. 

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel ? 

Stew. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared 
At suit of his gray beard, — 

Kent . Thou zed ! thou unnecessary letter ! — My lord, if you 
will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, 
and daub the wall with him. Spare my gray beard, you 
wagtail ? 

Corn. Peace, sirrah ! 
You beastly knave, know you no reverence ? 

Kent. Yes, sir ; but anger has a privilege. 

Corn. Why art thou angry ? 

Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, 
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, 
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain 
Which are too intrinse t' unloose : smooth every passion 
That in the natures of their lords rebels ; 
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods ; 
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks 
With every gale and vary of their masters, 
As knowing nought, like dogs, but following. — 
A plague upon your epileptic visage ! 
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool ? 
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, 
I 'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot. 

Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow ? 

Glo. How fell you out ? 

Say that. 

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy, 
Than I and such a knave. 

Corn. Why dost thou call him knave ? What 's his offense ? 

Kent. His countenance likes me not. 



412 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, or his, or hers. 

Kent. Sir, 't is my occupation to be plain ; 
I have seen better faces in my time, 
Than stands on any shoulders that I see 
Before me at this instant. 

Corn. This is some fellow, 

Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect 
A saucy roughness ; and constrains the garb, 
Quite from his nature. He cannot natter, he ! — 
An honest mind and plain, — he must speak truth : 
And they will take it, so ; if not, he's plain. 
These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness 
Harbor more craft, and more corrupter ends, 
Than twenty silly ducking observants, 
That stretch their duties nicely. 

Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, 
Under the allowance of your grand aspect, 
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire 
On flickering Phoebus' front, — 

Corn. What mean'st by this ? 

Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so 
much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you, 
in a plain accent, was a plain knave ; which, for my part, I 
will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me 
to it. 

Corn. What was the offense you gave him ? 

Stew. Never any ; 

It pleased the king his master, very late, 
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction : 
When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure, 
Tripped me behind ; being down, insulted, railed, 
And put upon him such a deal of man, 
That worthied him, got praises of the king, 
For him attempting who was self-subdued ; 
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, 
Drew on me here. 

Kent. None of these rogues, and cowards, 
But Ajax is their fool. 

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks, ho ! 

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart, 
We '11 teach you — 

Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn : 

Call not your stocks for me : I serve the king ; 
On whose employment I was sent to you : 
You shall do small respect, show too bold malice 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 413 

Against the grace and person of my master, 
Stocking his messenger. 

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks : 

As I 've life and honor, there shall he sit till noon. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE USURPATION OF BOLINGBROKE. 

BOLINGBROKE YORK NORTHUMBERLAND PERCY AUMERLE 

BAGOT CARLISLE SURREY — FITZWATER LORDS. 

( The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne ; the Lords tem- 
poral on the left ; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, 
Surrey, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, Bishop of 
Carlisle, Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. Officers behind, 
with Bagol.) 

Boling. Call forth Bagot : — 
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind ; 
What thou dost know of noble Gloster's death ; 
Who wrought it with the king, and who performed 
The bloody office of his timeless end. 

Bagot. Then set before my face the lord Aumerle. 

Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man. 

Bagot. My lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue 
Scorns to unsay what once it hath delivered. 
In that dread time when Gloster's death was plotted, 
I heard you say, — "Is not my arm of length, 
That reacheth from the restful English court 
As far as Calais, to my uncle's head ? " 
Amongst much other talk, that very time, 
I heard you say, that you had rather refuse 
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns, 
Than Bolingbroke' s return to England ; 
Adding withal, how blest this land would be, 
In this your cousin's death. 

Auin. Princes, and noble lords, 

What answer shall I make to this base man ? 
Shall I so much dishonor my fair stars, 
On equal terms to give him chastisement ? 
Either I must, or have mine honor soiled 
With the attainder of his slanderous lips. — 
There is my gage, the manual seal of death, 
That marks thee out for hell : I say, thou liest, 



414 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And will maintain, what thou hast said, is false, 
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base 
To stain the temper of my knightly sword. 

Boling. Bagot, forbear, thou shalt not take it up. 

Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best 
In all this presence, that hath moved me so. 

Fitz. If that thy valor stand on sympathies, 
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine : 
By that fair sun that shows me where thou stand'st, 
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it, 
That thou wert cause of noble Grloster's death. 
If thou deny'st it, twenty times thou liest ; 
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, 
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point. 

Aum. Thou darest not, coward, live to see that day. 

Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. 

Aum. Fitz water thou art damned to hell for this. 

Percy. Aumerle, thou liest ; his honor is as true, 
In this appeal, as thou art all unjust : 
And, that thou art so, there I throw my gage, 
To prove it on thee to the extremest point 
Of mortal breathing ; seize it, if thou darest. 

Aum. And if I do not, may my hands rot off, 
And never brandish more revengeful steel 
Over the glittering helmet of my foe ! 

Lord. I take the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle ; 
And spur thee on with full as many lies 
As may be holla' d in thy treacherous ear 
From sun to sun : there is my honor's pawn ; 
Engage it to the trial if thou darest. 

Aum. Who sets me else ? by heaven, I '11 throw at all 
I have a thousand spirits in one breast, 
To answer twenty thousand such as you. 

Surrey. My lord Fitzwater, I do remember well 
The very time Aumerle and you did talk. 

Fitz. My lord, 't is true : you were in presence then ; 
And you can witness with me, this is true. 

Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true. 

Fitz. Surrey, thou liest. 

Surrey. Dishonorable boy ! 

That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword, 
That it shall render vengeance and revenge, 
Till thou the lie-giver, and that lie, do he 
In earth as quiet as thy father's skull. 
In proof whereof, there is my honor's pawn ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 415 

Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. 

Fitz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse ! 
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, 
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, 
And spit upon him, whilst I say, he lies, 
And lies, and lies : there is my bond of faith, 
To tie thee to my strong correction. — 
As I intend to thrive in this new world, 
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal : 
Besides, I heard the banished Norfolk say, 
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men 
To execute the noble duke at Calais. 

Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage, 
That Norfolk lies : here I- do throw down this, 
If he may be repealed to try his honor. 

Baling. These differences shall all rest under gage, 
Till Norfolk be repealed : repealed he shall be, 
And, though mine enemy, restored again 
To all his land and seignories : when he 's returned, 
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. 

Car. That honorable day shall ne'er be seen. 
Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought 
For Jesu Christ : in glorious Christian field, 
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross, 
Against black Pagans, Turks, and Saracens : 
And, toiled with works of war, retired himself 
To Italy ; and there, at Venice, gave 
His body to that pleasant country's earth, 
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, 
Under whose colors he had fought so long. 

Boling. Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead ? 

Car. As sure as I live, my lord. 

Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom 
Of good old Abraham ! — Lords appellants, 
Your differences shall all rest under gage, 
Till we assign you to your days of trial. 
(Enter York, attended.) 

York. Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee 
From plume-plucked Richard ; who with willing soul 
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields 
To the possession of thy royal hand : 
Ascend his throne, descending now from him — 
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth ! 
Boling. In God's name, I '11 ascend the regal throne. 
Car. Marry, God forbid ! — 



416 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER, 

Worst in this royal presence may I speak, 

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 

"Would God, that any in this noble presence 

Were enough noble to be upright judge 

Of noble Richard ; then true nobless would 

Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 

What subject can give sentence on his king ? 

And who sits here, that is not Richard's subject ? 

Thieves are not judged, but they are by to hear, 

Although apparent guilt be seen in them : 

And shall the figure of God's majesty, 

His captain, steward, deputy elect, 

Anointed, crowned, planted many years, 

Be judged by subject and inferior breath, 

And he himself not present ? O, forbid it, God, 

That, in a Christian climate, souls refined 

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed ! 

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 

Stirred up by heaven, thus boldly for his king. 

My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, 

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king : 

And if you crown him, let me prophesy, — 

The blood of English shall manure the ground, 

And future ages groan for this foul act : 

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and Infidels, 

And, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars 

Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound ; 

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny, 

Shall here inhabit, and this land be called 

The field of Golgotha, and dead men's skulls. 

Oh, if you rear this house against this house, 

It will the woefullest division prove, 

That ever fell upon this cursed earth : 

Prevent, resist it, let it not be so, 

Lest child, child's children, cry against you — woe ! 

North. Well have you argued, sir ; and, for your pains, 
Of capital treason we arrest you here : — 
My lord of Westminster, be it your charge 
To keep him safely till his day of trial. — 
May 't please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit. 

Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view 
He may surrender ; so we shall proceed 
Without suspicion. 

York. I will be his conduct. (Exit.) 

Boling. Lords, you that are here under our arrest, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 417 

Procure your sureties for your days of answer : 

Little are we beholden to your love, ( To Carlisle. ) 

And little looked for at your helping hands. shakspeare. 



REBELLION OF HOTSPUR, MORTIMER, AND GLENDOWER. 

HOTSPUR WORCESTER MORTIMER GLENDOWER. 

Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure, 
And our induction full of prosperous hope. 

Hot. Lord Mortimer, — and cousin Glendower, — 
Will you sit down ? — 
And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it ! 
I have forgot the map. 

Glend. No, here it is. 

Sit, cousin Percy ; sit, good cousin Hotspur : 
For by that name as oft as Lancaster 
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale ; and with 
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven. 

Hot. And you in hell, as often as he hears 
Owen Glendower spoke of. 

Glend. I cannot blame him : at my nativity, 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 
Of burning cressets ; and at my birth, 
The frame and huge foundation of the earth 
Shaked like a coward. 

Hot. Why, so it would have done 

At the same season, if your mother's cat had 
But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born. 

Glend. I say, the earth did shake when I was born. 

Hot. And I say, the earth was not of my mind, 
If you suppose, as fearing you it shook. 

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble. 

Hot. Oh, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, 
And not in fear of your nativity. 
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions : oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed 
By the imprisoning of unruly wind 
Within her womb ; which, for enlargement striving, 
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down 
Steeples, and moss-grown towers. At your birth, 



418 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Our grandam earth, having this distemperature, 
In passion shook. 

Glend. Cousin, of many men 

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 
To tell you once again, — that at my birth, 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes : 
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds 
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. 
These signs have marked me extraordinary ; 
And all the courses of my life do show, 
I am not in the roll of common men. 
Where is he living, — clipped in with the sea 
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, — 
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? 
And bring him out, that is but woman's son, 
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, 
And hold me pace in deep experiments. 

Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh : — 
I will to dinner. 

Mort. Peace, cousin Percy ; you will make him mad. 

Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 

Hot. Why, so can I ; or so can any man : 
But will they come, when you do call for them ? 

Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command 
The devil. 

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil, 
By telling truth ; tell truth, and shame the devil. — 
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, 
And I '11 be sworn, I have power to shame him hence. 
Oh, while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil. 

Mort. Come, come. 
No more of this unprofitable chat. 

■ Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head 
Against my power : thrice from the banks of Wye, 
And sandy-bottomed Severn, have I sent him, 
Bootless home, and weather-beaten back. 

Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too ! 
How 'scapes he agues, in the devil's name ? 

Glend. Come, here's the map ; shall we divide our right, 
According to our threefold order ta'en ? 

Mort. The archdeacon hath divided it 
Into three limits, very equally : 
England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, 
By south and east, is to my part assigned ; 
All westward Wales, beyond the Severn shore, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 419 

And all the fertile land within that bound, 

To Owen Glendower ; — and, dear coz, to yon 

The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. 

And our indentures tripartite are drawn, 

Which being* sealed interchangeably, 

(A business that this night may execute,) 

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you, and I, 

And my good lord of Worcester, will set forth, 

To meet your father, and the Scottish power, 

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. 

My father, Glendower, is not ready yet, 

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days : 

Within that space, (To Glend.) you may have drawn together 

Your tenants, friends, and neighboring gentlemen. 

Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords, 
And in my conduct shall your ladies come : 
From whom you now must steal, and take no leave ; 
For there will be a world of water shed, 
Upon the parting of your wives and you. 

Hot. Methinks, my moiety, north from Burton here, 
In quantity equals not one of yours : 
See, how this river comes me cranking in, 
And cuts me from the best of all my land, 
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. 
I '11 have the current in this place dammed up, 
And here the smug and silver Trent shall run 
In a new channel, fair and evenly : 
It shall not wind with such a deep indent, 
To rob me of so rich a bottom here. 

Glend. Not wind ? it shall, it must ; you see, it doth. 

Mort. Yea, 
But mark, how he bears his course, and runs me up 
With like advantage on the other side ; 
Gelding the opposed continent as much 
As on the other side it takes from you. 

Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here, 
And on this north side win this cape of land ; 
And then he runs straight and even. 

Hot. I '11 have it so ; a little charge will do it. 

Glend. I will not have it altered. 

Hot. Will not you ? 

Glend. No, nor you shall not. 

Hot. Who shall say me nay ? 

Glend. Why, that will I. 

Hot. Let me not understand you then, 



420 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Speak it in Welsh. 

Olend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you ; 
For I was trained up in the English court : 
"Where, being but young, I framed to the harp 
Many an English ditty, lovely well, 
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament ; 
A virtue that was never seen in you. 

Hot. Marry, and I 'm glad of it with all my heart ; 
I had rather be a kitten, and cry — mew, 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers, 
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned, 
Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree, 
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, 
Nothing so much as mincing poetry ; 
'T is like the forced gait of a shuffling nag. 

Olend. Come, you shall have Trent turned. 

Hot. I do not care : I 'd give thrice so much land 
To any well-deserving friend ; 
But, in the way of bargain, mark ye me, 
I '11 cavil on the ninth part of a hair. 
Are the indentures drawn ? shall we begone ? shakspeare. 



THE WELSHMAN AND HIS LEEK. 

FLUELLEN GOWER PISTOL. 

Gow. Nay, that 's right ; but why wear you your leek to-day ? 
Saint Davy's day is past. 

Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all 
things : I will tell you, as my friend, captain Gower. The ras- 
cally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, — which 
you and yourself, and all the 'orld, know to be no petter than a 
fellow, look you now, of no merits, — he is come to me, and 
prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my 
leek : it was in a place where I could not breed no contentions 
with him ; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see 
him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my 
desires . ( Miter Pistol. ) 

Goiv. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. 

Flu. 'T is no matter for his swellings, nor his turkey-cocks. — 
Got pless you, ancient Pistol ! you scurvy, lousy knave, Got 
pless you ! 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 421 

Pist. Ha ! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, 
To have me fold up P area's fatal web ? 
Hence ! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. 

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my 
desires^ and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, 
this leek ; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affec- 
tions, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree 
with it, I would desire you to eat it. 

Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. 

Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.) Will you be 
so goot, scald knave, as eat it ? 

Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. 

Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when Got's will is : I 
will desire you to live in the meantime, and eat your victuals ; 
come, there is sauce for it. [Striking him again.) You called 
me yesterday, mountain-squire ; but I will make you to-day a 
squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to ; if you can mock a 
leek, you can eat a leek. 

Gow. Enough, captain ; you have astonished him. 

Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I 
will peat his pate four days : — Pite, I pray you ; it is goot for 
your green wound, and your ploody coxcomb. 

Pist. Must I bite ? 

Flu. Yes, certainly ; and out of doubt, and out of questions 
too, and ambiguities. 

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge ; I eat, and 
eke I swear — 

Flu. Eat, I pray you : will you have some more sauce to your 
leek ? there is not enough leek to swear by. 

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel ; thou dost see, I eat. 

Flu. Much goot do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, 'pray 
you, throw none away ; the skin is goot for your proken cox- 
comb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray 
you, mock at them ; that is all. 

Pist. Good. 

Flu. Ay, leeks is goot : — hold you, there is a groat to heal 
your pate. 

Pist. Me a groat. 

Flu. Yes, verily, and in truth, you shall take it ; or I have 
another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. 

Pist. I take thy groat, in earnest of revenge. 

Flu. If I owe you anything, I will pay you in cudgels ; you 
shall be a wood-monger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. 
God be wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate. (Exit.) 

Pist. All hell shall stir for this. 



422 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Goto. Go, go ; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will 
you mock at an ancient tradition, — begun upon an honorable 
respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valor, — 
and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words ? I 
have seen you gleeking and gulling at this gentleman twice or 
thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the 
native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel : 
you find it otherwise ; and, henceforth, let a "Welsh correction 
teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE DISGUISED KING. 

KING HENRY V. BATES COURT — WILLIAMS. 

Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which 
breaks yonder ? 

Bates. I think it be : but we have no great cause to desire the 
approach of day. 

Will. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but, I think, 
we shall never see the end of it. — Who goes there ? 

K. Hen. A friend. 

Will. Under what captain serve you ? 

K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. 

Will. A good old commander, and a most kind gentleman : I 
pray you, what thinks he of our estate ? 

K. Hen. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be 
washed off the next tide. 

Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king ! 

K. Hen. No ; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I 
speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I am : the vio- 
let smells to him, as it doth to me ; the element shows to him, 
as it doth to me ; all his senses have but human conditions : his 
ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man ; and 
though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when 
they stoop, they stoop with the like wing : therefore when he 
sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the 
same relish as ours are. Yet, in reason, no man should possess 
him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should 
dishearten his army. 

Bates. He may show what outward courage he will : but, I 
believe, as cold a night as 't is, he could wish himself in the 
Thames up to the neck ; and so I would he were, and I by him, 
at all adventures, so we were quit here. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 423 

K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king ; 
I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is. 

Bates. Then, would he were here alone ; so should he be 
sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved. 

K. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here 
alone ; howsoever, you speak this, to feel other men's minds. 
Methinks, I could not die anywhere so contented, as in the 
king's company ; his cause being just, and his quarrel honorable. 

Will. That 's more than we know. 

Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after ; for we know 
enough, if we know we are the king's subjects ; if his cause be 
wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us. 

Will. But, if the cause be not good, the king himself hath 
a heavy reckoning to make ; when all those legs, and arms, and 
heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter 
day, and cry all, — We died at such a place ; some, swearing ; 
some, crying for a surgeon ; some, upon their wives left poor 
behind them ; some, upon the debts they owe ; some, upon their 
children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well, that die 
in battle ; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, 
when blood is their argument ? Now, if these men do not die 
well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it ; 
whom to disobey, were against all proportion of subjection. 

K. Hen. So, if a son, that is by his father sent about mer- 
chandise, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of 
his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father 
that sent him : or if a servant, under his master's command, 
transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers, and die in 
many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the 
master the author of the servant's damnation. 

Will. 'T is certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his 
own head, the king is not to answer for it. 

Bates. I do not desire he should answer for me ; and yet I 
determine to fight lustily for him. 

K. Hen. I myself heard the king say, he would not be ran- 
somed. 

Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully ; but, when 
our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne'er the 
wiser. 

K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. 
Will. 'Mass, you '11 pay him, then ! That 's a perilous shot 
out of an elder gun, that a poor and private displeasure can do 
against a monarch ! you may as well go about to turn the sun to 
ice, with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. You '11 
never trust his word after : come, 't is a foolish saying. 



424 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

K. Hen. Your reproof is something too round ; I should be 
angry with you, if the time were convenient. 

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live. 

K. Hen. I embrace it. 

Will. How shall I know thee again ? 

K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my 
bonnet : then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it 
my quarrel. 

Will. Here 's my glove ; give me another of thine. 

K. Hen. There. 

Will. This will I also wear in my cap : if ever thou come to 
me and say, after to-morrow, " This is my glove," by this hand, 
I will take thee a box on the ear. 

K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it. 

Will. Thou darest as well be hanged. 

K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king's 
company. 

Will. Keep thy word : fare thee well. shakspeare. 



THE FEUD OF THE ROSES. 



RICHARD PLANTAGENET WARWICK SUFFOLK SOMERSET — 

VERNON LAWYER. 

Plan. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence ? 
Dare no man answer in a case of truth ? 

Suff. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud ; 
The garden here is more convenient. 

Plan. Then say at once, if I maintained the truth ; 
Or, else, was wrangling Somerset in the error ? 

Suff. 'Faith, I have been a truant in the law ; 
And never yet could frame my will to it : 
And, therefore, frame the law unto my will. 

Som. Judge you, my lord of Warwick, then between us. 

War. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch ; 
Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth ; 
Between two blades, which bears the better temper ; 
Between two horses, which doth bear him best ; 
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye ; 
I have, perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment : 
But in these nice, sharp quillets of the law, 
Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. 

Plan. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance : 



DIALOGUES SEKIOUS AND COMIC- 425 

The truth appears so naked on my side, 
That any purblind eye may find it out. 

Som. And on my side it is so well appareled, 
So clear, so shining, and so evident, 
That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. 

Plan. Since you are tongue-tied, and so loth to speak, 
In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts : 
Let him that is a true-born gentleman, 
And stands upon the honor of his birth, 
If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, 
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. 

Som. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, 
But dare maintain the party of the truth, 
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. 

War. I love no colors ; and, without all color 
Of base, insinuating flattery, 
I pluck this white rose, with Plantagenet. 

Suff. I pluck this red rose, with young Somerset ; 
And say, withal, I think he held the right. 

Ver. Stay, lords and gentlemen ; and pluck no more, 
Till you conclude, that he, upon whose side 
The fewest roses are cropped from the tree, 
Shall yield the other in the right opinion. 

Som. Good master Vernon, it is well objected -, 
If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. 

Plan. And I. 

Ver. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, 
I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, 
Giving my verdict on the white rose side. 

Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off; 
Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, 
And fall on my side so against your will. 

Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, 
Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, 
And keep me on the side where still I am. 

Som. Well, well, come on : who else ? 

Law. Unless my study and my books be false, 
The argument you held was wrong in you ; ( To Somerset. ) 
In sign whereof, I pluck a white rose too. 

Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument ? 

Som. Here, in my scabbard ; meditating that 
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. 

Plan. Meantime, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses ; 
For pale they look with fear, as witnessing 
The truth on our side. 
36 



426 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Sora. No, Plantagenet, 

'T is not for fear, but anger, that thy cheeks 
Blush for pure shame, to counterfeit our roses ; 
And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. 

Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset ? 

Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet ? 

Plan. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth, 
Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. 

Som. Well, I '11 find friends to wear my bleeding roses, 
That shall maintain what I have said is true, 
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. 

Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, 
I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. 

Suff. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. 

Plan. Proud Poole, I will ; and scorn both him and thee. 

Suff. I '11 turn my part thereof into thy throat. 

Som. Away, away, good William de-la-Poole ! 
We grace the yeoman, by conversing with him. 

War. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset ; 
His grandfather was Lionel, duke of Clarence, 
Third son to the third Edward king of England ; 
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root ? 

Plan. He bears him on the place's privilege, 
Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. 

Som. By Him that made me, I '11 maintain my words, 
On any plot of ground in Christendom : 
Was not thy father, Richard, earl of Cambridge, 
For treason executed in our late king's days ? 
And, by his treason, stand'st not thou attainted, 
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry ? 
His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood ; 
And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman. 

Plan. My father was attached, not attainted ; 
Condemned to die for treason, but no traitor ; 
And that I '11 prove on better men than Somerset, 
Were growing time once ripened to my will. 
For your partaker, Poole, and you yourself, 
I '11 note you in my book of memory, 
To scourge you for this apprehension : 
Look to it well ; and say you are well warned. 

Som. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still : 
And know us, by these colors, for thy foes ; 
For these my friends, in spite of thee shall wear. 

Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, 
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 427 

Will I forever, and my faction, wear ; 
Until it wither with, me to my grave, 
Or flourish to the hight of my degree. 

Suff. Go forward, and be choked with thy ambition ! 
And so farewell, until I meet thee next. (Exit.) 

Som. Have with thee, Poole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. 

(Exit.) 

Plan. How I am braved, -and must perforce endure it ! 

War. This blot, that they object against your house, 
Shall be wiped out in the next parliament, 
Called for the truce of Winchester and Gloster : 
And, if thou be not then created York, 
I will not live to be accounted Warwick. 
Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, 
Against proud Somerset, and William Poole, 
Will I upon thy party wear this rose : 
And here I prophesy, — This brawl to-day, 
Grown to this faction, in the Temple Garden, 
Shall send, between the red rose and the white, 
A thousand souls to death and deadly night. 

Plan. Good master Vernon, I am bound to you, 
That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. 

Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the same. 

Law. And so will I. 

Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. 

Come, let us four to dinner : I dare say, 
This quarrel will drink blood another day. shakspeare. 



THE QUARREL OF GLOSTER AND WINCHESTER. 

GLOSTER BISHOP OF WINCHESTER LORDS. 

Win. Com'st thou with deep premeditated lines, 
With written pamphlets studiously devised, 
Humphrey of Gloster ? If thou canst accuse, 
Or aught intend' st to lay unto my charge, 
Do it without invention suddenly ; 
As I with sudden and extemporal speech 
Purpose to answer what thou canst object. 

Olo. Presumptuous priest ! this place commands my patience, 
Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonored me. 
Think not, although in writing I preferred 



428 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The manner of thy vile, outrageous crimes, 
That therefore I have forged, or am not able 
Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen : 
No, prelate ; such is thy audacious wickedness, 
Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, 
As very infants prattle of thy pride. 
Thou art a most pernicious usurer ; 
Froward by nature, enemy to peace ; 
Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems 
A man of thy profession and degree ; 
And for thy treachery, what 's more manifest ? 
In that thou laid'st a trap to take my life, 
As well at London bridge, as at the Tower ? 
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, 
The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt 
From envious malice of thy swelling heart. 

Win. Gloster, I do defy thee. — Lords, vouchsafe 
To give me hearing what I shall reply. 
If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, 
As he will have me, how am I so poor ? 
Or how haps it, I seek not to advance 
Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling ? 
And for dissension, who preferreth peace 
More than I do — except I be provoked ? 
No, my good lords, it is not that offends ; 
It is not that, that hath incensed the duke : 
It is, because no one should sway but he, — 
ISTo one, but he, should be about the king ; 
And that engenders thunder in his breast, 
And makes him roar these accusations forth. 
But he shall know I am as good — 

Glo. As good ? 

Thou bastard of my grandfather ! — 

Win. Ay, lordly sir ; for what are you, I pray, 
But one imperious in another's throne ? 

Glo. Am I not the protector, saucy priest ? 

Win. And am I not a prelate of the church ? 

Glo. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps, 
And useth it to patronage his theft. 

Win. Unreverent Gloster ! 

Glo. Thou art reverent 

Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. 

Win. This, Rome shall remedy. 

Glo. Roam thither, then. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



DIALOGUES- — SERIOUS AND COMIC. 429 

THE MURDER OF PRINCE ARTHUR. 

PEMBROKE — SALISBURY — BIGOT — HUBERT — THE BASTARD. 

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmund's-Bury ; 
It is our safety, and we must embrace 
This gentle offer of the perilous time. 

Pern. Who brought that letter from the cardinal ? 

Sal. The count Melun, a noble lord of France ; 
Whose private with me, of the dauphin's love, 
Is much more general than these lines import. 

Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. 

Sal. Or, rather then set forward ; for 'twill be 
Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet. 
[Enter the Bastard.) 

Bast. Once more to-day, well met, distempered lords ! 
The king, by me, requests your presence straight. 

Sal. The king hath dispossessed himself of us ; 
We will not line his thin bestained cloak 
With our pure honors, nor attend the foot 
That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks : 
Return, and tell him so : we know the worst. 

Bast. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best. 

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. 

Bast. But there is little reason in your grief ; 
Therefore, 't were reason you had manners now. 

Pern. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. 

Bast. 'T is true ; to hurt his master, no man else. 

Sal. This is the prison : what is he lies here ? 

( Seeing Art/iur. ) 

Pern. death, made proud with pure and princely beauty ! 
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. 

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, 
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. 

Big. Or, when he doomed this beauty to a grave, 
Found it too precious-princely for a grave. 

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you ? Have you beheld, 
Or have you read, or heard ? or could you think ? 
Or do you almost think, although you see, 
That you do see ? could thought, without this object, 
Form such another ? This is the very top, 
The hight, the crest, or crest unto the crest, 
Of murder's arms : this is the bloodiest shame, 
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, 



430 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

That ever wall-eyed wrath, or staring rage, 
Presented to the tears of soft remorse. 

Pern. All murders past do stand excused in this ; 
And this, so sole, and so unmatchable, 
Shall give a holiness, a purity, 
To the yet unbegotten sin of time ; 
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, 
Exampled by this heinous spectacle. 

Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work ; 
The graceless action of a heavy hand, 
If that it be the work of any hand. 

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand ? — 
We had a kind of light what would ensue : 
It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand ; 
The practice, and the purpose of the king : — 
From whose obedience I forbid my soul, 
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, 
And breathing to his breathless excellence 
The incense of a vow, a holy vow, 
Never to taste the pleasures of the world, 
Never to be infected with delight, 
Nor conversant with ease and idleness, 
Till I have set a glory to this hand, 
By giving it the worship of revenge. 

Pern. Big. Our souls religiously confirm thy words. 
(Enter Hubert.) 

Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you : 
Arthur doth live ; the king hath sent for you. 

Sal. Oh, he is bold, and blushes not at death : 
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone ! 

Hub. I am no villain. 

Sal. Must I rob the law? (Drawing his sword.) 

Bast. Your sword is bright, sir ; put it up again. 

Sal. Not till I sheath it in a murderer's skin. 

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say ; 
By heaven, I think, my sword 's as sharp as yours ; 
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, 
Nor tempt the danger of my true defense ; 
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget 
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility. 

Big. Out, dunghill ! dar'st thou brave a nobleman ? 

Hub. Not for my life : but yet I dare defend 
My innocent life against an emperor. 

Sal. Thou art a murderer. 

Hub. Do not prove me so ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 431 

Yet, I am none : whose tongue soe'er speaks false, 
Not truly speaks ; who speaks not truly, lies. 

Pern. Cut him to pieces. 

Bast. Keep the peace, I say. 

Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge ! 

Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury : 
If thou but frown on me or stir thy foot, 
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, 
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime ; 
Or I'll so maul you and your toasting iron, 
That you shall think the devil is come from hell. 

Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge ? 
Second a villain, and a murderer ? 

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none. 

Big. Who killed this prince ? 

Hub. 'T is not an hour since I left him well : 
I honored him, I loved him ; and will weep 
My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss. 

Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, 
For villainy is not without such rheum ; 
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem 
Like rivers of remorse and innocency. 
Away, with me all you whose souls abhor 
The uncleanly savors of a slaughter house, 
For I am stifled with this smell of sin. 

Big. Away, toward Bury, to the dauphin there ! 

Pern. There, tell the king, he may inquire us out. 

{Exeunt Lords.) 

Bast. Here 's a good world ! — knew you of this fair work ? 
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach 
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, 
Art thou damned, Hubert. 

Hub. Do but hear me, sir. 

Bast. Ha, I'll tell thee what ; 
Thou art damned as black — nay, nothing is so black : 
Thou art more deep damned than prince Lucifer ; 
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. 

Hub. Upon my soul, — 

Bast. If thou didst but consent 

To this most cruel act, do but despair ; 
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread 
That ever spider twisted from her womb 
Will serve to strangle thee ; a rush will be 
A beam to hang thee on ; or wouldst thou drown thyself, 



432 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Put but a little water in a spoon, 
And it shall be as all the ocean, 
Enough to stifle such a villain up. — 
I do suspect thee very grievously. 

Hub. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought 
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath 
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, 
Let hell want pains enough to torture me ! 
I left him well. 

Bast. Go bear him in thine arms. — 

I am amazed, methinks ; and lose my way 
Among the thorns and dangers of this world. — 
How easy dost thou take all England up ! 
From forth this morsel of dead royalty, 
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm 
Is fled to heaven : and England now is left 
To tug and scramble, and to part by the teeth 
The unowed interest of proud swelling state. 
Now, for the bare-picked bone of majesty, 
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest, 
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace : 
Now powers from home, and discontents at home, 
Meet in one line ; and vast confusion waits 
(As doth a raven on a sick- fallen beast,) 
The imminent decay of wrested pomp. 
Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture can 
Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, 
And follow me with speed : I'll to the king. 
A thousand businesses are brief in hand, 
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. shakspeare. 



THE ENCHANTER AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT. 

PROSPERO ARIEL. 

Ari. All hail, great master ! grave sir, hail ! I come 
To answer thy best pleasure ; be 't to fly, 
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curled clouds ; to thy strong bidding task 
Ariel, and all his quality. 

Pro. Hast thou, spirit, 

Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 433 

Ari. To every article. 
I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak, 
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
I flamed amazement : sometimes, I 'd divide, 
And burn in many places ; on the top-mast, 
The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 
Then meet, and join : Jove's lightnings, the precursors 
0' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary 
And sight-outrunning were not : the fire, and cracks 
Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty jSeptune 
Seemed to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, 
Yea, his dread trident shake. 

Pro. My brave spirit ! 

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
Would not infect his reason ? 

Ari. JSTot a soul 

But felt a fever of the mad, and played 
Some tricks of desperation : all, but mariners, 
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel, 
Then all a-fire with me : the king's son, Ferdinand, 
With hair up-staring, (then like reeds, not hair,) 
Was the first man that leaped ; cried, " Hell is empty, 
And all the devils are here." 

Pro. Why, that 's my spirit ! 

But was not this nigh shore ? 

Ari. Close by, my master. 

Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 

Ari. jSTot a hair perished ; 

On their sustaining garments not a blemish, 
But fresher than before : and, as thou badest me, 
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle : 
The king's son have I landed by himself; 
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs, 
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 
His arms in this sad knot. 

Pro. Of the king's ship — 

The mariners — say, how thou hast disposed, 
And all the rest o' the fleet ? 

Ari. Safely in the harbor 

Is the king's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
Thou calledst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still-vexed Bermoothes, there she's hid : 
The mariners all under hatches stowed ; 
Whom, with a charm joined to their suffered labor, 
I have left asleep : and for the rest o' the fleet, 
37 



434 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Which I dispersed, they all have met again ; 
And are upon the Mediterranean note, 
Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wrecked, 
And his great person perish. 

Pro. Ariel, thy charge 

Exactly is performed ; but there 's more work : 
What is the time o' the day ? 

Ari. Past the mid season. 

Pro. At least two glasses : the time 'twixt six and now, 
Must by us both be spent most preciously. 

Ari. Is there more toil ? Since thou dost give me pains, 
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, 
Which is not yet performed me. 

Pro. How now ? moody ? 

What is 't thou canst demand ? 

Ari. My liberty. 

Pro. Before the time be out ? no more. 

Ari. I pray thee 

Remember, I have done thee worthy service ; 
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, served 
Without or grudge or grumblings : thou didst promise 
To bate me a full year. 

Pro. Dost thou forget 

From what a torment I did free thee ? 

Ari. No. 

Pro. Thou dost ; and think'st 
It much, to tread the ooze of the salt deep , 
To run upon the sharp wind of the north ; 
To do me business in the veins o' the earth, 
When it is baked with frost. 

Ari. I' do not, sir. 

Pro. Thou liest, malignant thing ! Hast thou forgot 
The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age and envy 
Was grown into a hoop ? Hast thou forgot her ? 

Ari. No, sir. 

Pro. Thou hast : where was she born ? speak ; tell me. 

Ari. Sir, in Argier. 

Pro. Oh, was she so ? I must, 

Once in a month, recount what thou hast been, 
Which thou forget' st. This damned witch, Sycorax, 
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible 
To enter human hearing, from Argier, 
Thou know'st, was banished ; for one thing she did, 
They would not take her life : is not this true ? 



DIALOGUES — SERIOUS AND COMIC. 435 

Ari. Aye, sir. 

Pro. This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child, 
And here was left by the sailors : thou, my slave, 
As thou report' st thyself, wast then her servant : 
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
To act her earthy and abhorred commands, 
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, 
By help of her more potent ministers, 
And in her most unmitigable rage, 
Into a cloven pine ; within which rift 
Imprisoned, thou didst painfully remain 
A dozen years ; within which space she died, 
And left thee there ; where thou didst vent thy groans, 
As fast as mill-wheels strike : then was this island, 
(Save for the son that she did litter here, 
A freckled whelp, hag-born,) not honored with 
A human shape. 

Ari. Yes ; Caliban her son. 

Pro. Dull thing, I say so ; he, that Caliban, 
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st 
What torment I did find thee in : thy groans 
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts 
Of ever-angry bears : it was a torment 
To lay upon the damned, which Sycorax 
Could not again undo ; it was mine art, 
When I arrived, and heard thee, that made gape 
The pine, and let thee out. 

Ari. I thank thee, master. 

Pro. If thou more murmurest, I will rend an oak, 
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
Thou hast howled away twelve winters. 

Ari. Pardon, master : 

I will be correspondent to command, 
And do my spiriting gently. 

Pro. Do so ; and after two days 

I will discharge thee. 

Ari. That 's my noble master ! 

What shall I do ? say what ? what shall I do ? 

Pro. Go make thyself like to a nymph of the sea ; 
Be subject to no sight but mine ; invisible 
To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape, 
And hither come in 't : hence, with diligence. shaksfeare. 



436 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE PUNNING MESSENGER. 



Speed. Sir Proteus, save you : saw you my master ? 

Pro. But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan. 

Speed. Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already ; 
And I have played the sheep in losing him. 

Pro. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, 
An if the shepherd be awhile away. 

Speed. You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, and 
I a sheep ? 

Pro. I do. 

Speed. Why, then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake 
or sleep. 

Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. 

Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 

Pro. True, and thy master a shepherd. 

Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. 

Pro. It shall go hard, but I '11 prove it by another. 

Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the 
shepherd ; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me : 
therefore, I am no sheep. 

Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd ; the shepherd 
for food follows not the sheep : thou for wages followest thy 
master ; thy master for wages follows not thee : therefore, thou 
art a sheep. 

Speed. Such another proof will make me cry baa. 

Pro. But dost thou hear ? gav'st thou my letter to Julia ? 

Speed. Ay, sir : I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a 
laced mutton ; and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, 
nothing for my labor. 

Pro. Here 's too small a pasture for such a store of muttons. 

Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her. 

Pro. Nay, in that you are astray ; 't were best pound you. 

Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying 
your letter. 

Pro. You mistake ; I mean the pound, a pinfold. 

Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over and over ; 
'T is threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. 

Pro. But what said she ? did she nod ? [Speed nods.) 

Speed. I. 

Pro. Nod, I ? why, that 's noddy. 

Speed. You mistook, sir ; I say, she did nod : and you ask 
me, if she did nod ; and I say, I. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 437 

Pro. And that set together, is — noddy. 

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take 
it for your pains. 

Pro. No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter. 

Speed. Well, I perceive, I must be fain to bear with you. 

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me ? 

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly ; having nothing but 
the word, noddy, for my pains. 

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. 

Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. 

Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief : what said she ? 

Sp>eed. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may 
be both at once delivered. 

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains : what said she ? 

Speed. Truly, sir, I think you '11 hardly win her. 

Pro. Why ? couldst thou perceive so much from her ? 

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her ; no, not 
so much as a ducat for delivering your letter : and being so hard 
to me that brought your mind, I fear she '11 prove as hard to 
you in telling her mind. Give her no token but stones ; for 
she 's as hard as steel. 

Pro. What, said she nothing ? 

Speed. No, not so much as — " Take this for thy pains." To 
testify your bounty, I thank you ; you have testerned me ; in 
requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself : and so, 
sir, I '11 commend you to my master. 

Pro. Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wreck ; 
Which cannot perish, having thee aboard, 
Being destined to a drier death on shore. 
I must go send some better messenger ; 
I fear, my Julia would not deign my lines, 
Receiving them from such a worthless post. shakspeare. 






INDICATIONS OF BEING IN LOVE. 

SPEED VALENTINE. 

Speed. Sir, your glove. 

Vol. Not mine ; my gloves are on. 

Speed. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. 

Vol. Ha ! let me see : ay, give it me ; it 's mine : — 
Sweet ornament that* decks a thing divine ! 
Ah, Silvia ! Silvia ! 



438 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Speed. Madam Silvia ! madam Silvia ! 

Vol. How now, sirrah ? 

Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 

Vol. Why, sir, who bade you call her ? 

Speed. Your worship, sir ; or else I mistook. 

Vol. Well, yon '11 still be too forward. 

Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. 

Vol. Go to, sir ; tell me, do you know madam Silvia ? 

Speed. She that your worship loves ? 

Vol. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 

Speed. Marry, by these special marks : — First, you have 
learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms, like a malcontent ; 
to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast ; to walk alone, like 
one that had the pestilence ; to sigh, like a school-boy that had 
lost his A, B, C ; to weep, like a young wench that had buried 
her grandam ; to fast, like one that takes diet ; to watch, like 
one that fears robbing ; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hal- 
lowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a 
cock ; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions ; when 
you fasted, it was presently after dinner ; when you looked sadly, 
it was for want of money : and now you are metamorphosed 
with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you 
my master. 

Vol. Are all these things perceived in me ? 

Speed. They are all perceived without you. 

Vol. Without me ? They cannot. 

Speed. Without you ? nay, that 's certain ; for, without you 
were so simple, none else would : but you are so without these 
follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you ; 
that not an eye that sees you, but is a physician to comment on 
your malady. 

Vol. But, tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia ? 

Speed. She, that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper ? 

Vol. Hast thou observed that ? even she I mean. 

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 

Vol. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know'st 
her not ? 

Speed. Is she not hard favored, sir ? 

Vol. Not so fair, boy, as well favored. 

Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 

Vol. What dost thou know ? 

Speed. That she is not so fair, as (of you) well favored. 

Val. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but her favor infinite. 

Speed. That 's because the one is painted, and the other out 
of all count. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 439 

Val. How painted ? and how out of count ? 

Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man 
counts of her beauty. 

Val. How esteemest thou me ? I account of her beauty. 

Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed. 

Val. How long hath she been deformed ? 

Speed. Ever since you loved her. 

Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her ; and still I see 
her beautiful. 

Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 

Val. Why ? 

Speed. Because love is blind. 0, that you had mine eyes ; 
or your own had the lights they were wont to have, when you 
chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered ! 

Val. What should I see then ? 

Speed. Your own present folly, and her passing deformity ; 
for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose ; and you, 
being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. 

Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love ; for last morning you 
could not see to wipe my shoes. 

Speed. True, sir ; I was in love with my bed : I thank you ; 
you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide 
you for yours. 

Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 

Speed. I would you were set ; so, your affection would cease. 

Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she 
loves. 

Speed. And have you ? 

Val. I have. 

Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? 

Val. No, boy ; but as well as I can do them. - — Peace, here 
she comes. — shakspeare. 






WILL IT BE A MATCH ? 

SPEED LAUNCE. 



Speed. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan. 

Laun. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth ; for I am not wel- 
come. I reckon this always — that a man is never undone, till 
he be hanged ; nor never welcome to a place, till some certain 
shot be paid, and the hostess say, welcome. 



440 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Speed. Come on, you mad-cap, I '11 to the ale-hou.se with you 
presently ; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have 
five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part 
with madam Julia ? 

Laun. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very 
fairly in jest. 

Speed. But shall she marry him ? 

Laun. ~No. 

Speed. How then ? Shall he marry her ? 

Laun. No, neither. 

Speed. What, are they broken ? 

Laun. No, they are both as whole as a fish. 

Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with them ? 

Laun. Marry, thus : when it stands well with him, it stands 
well with her. 

Speed. What an ass art thou ! I understand thee not. 

Laun. What a block art thou, that thou canst not ! My staff 
understands me. 

Speed. What thou sayst ? 

Laun. Ay, and what I do too : look thee, I '11 but lean, and 
my staff understands me. 

Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 

Laun. Why, stand under and understand is all one. 

Speed. But tell me true, will 't be a match ? 

Laun. Ask my dog : if he say, ay, it will ; if he say, no, it 
will ; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will. 

Speed. The conclusion is, then, that it will. 

Laun. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me, but by a 
parable. 

Speed. 'T is well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st 
thou, that thy master is become a notable lover ? 

Laun. I never knew him otherwise. 

Speed. Than how ? 

Laun. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. 

Speed. Why, thou ass, thou mistakest me. 

Laun. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I meant thy master. 

Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. 

Laun. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in 
love. If thou wilt go with me to the ale-house, so ; if not, thou 
art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. 

Speed. Why? 

Laun. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee, as to go 
to the ale with a Christian : Wilt thou go ? 

Speed. At thy service. shakspeare. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 441 



A WOMAN'S VIRTUES AND FAULTS. 



Speed. How now, signor Launce ? what news with your mas- 
tership ? 

Laun. With my master's ship ? why, it is at sea. 

Speed. Well, your old vice still ; mistake the word : what 
news then in your paper ? 

Laun. The blackest news that ever thou heard' st. 

Speed. Why, man, how black ? 

Laun. Why, as black as ink. 

Speed. Let me read them. 

Laun. Fie on thee, jolt-head ; thou canst not read. 

Speed. Thou liest, I can. 

Laun. I will try thee : tell me this : who begot thee ? 

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 

Laun. illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grandmother : 
this proves, that thou canst not read. 

Speed. Come, fool, come : try me in thy paper. 

Laun. There ; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed. 

Speed. Imprimis, "She can milk." 

Laun. Ay, that she can. 

Speed. Item, " She brews good ale." 

Laun. And therefore comes the proverb, — Blessing of your 
heart, you brew good ale. 

Speed. Item, " She can sew." 

Laun. That 's as much as to say, Can she so ? 

Speed. Item, "She can knit." 

Laun. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when 
she can knit him a stock ? 

Speed. Item, " She can wash and scour." 

Laun. A special virtue ; for then she need not be washed and 
scoured. 

Speed. Item, ** She can spin." 

Laun. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can 
spin for her living. 

Speed. Item, " She hath many nameless virtues." 

Laun. That 's as much as to say, bastard virtues ; that, 
indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. 

Speed. " Here follow her vices." 

Laun. Close at the heels of her virtues. 

Speed. Item, " She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of 
her breath." 



442 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Laun. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. 

Speed. Item, " She hath a sweet mouth." 

Laun. That makes amends for her sour breath. 

Speed. Item, " She doth talk in her sleep." 

Laun. It 's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. 

Speed. Item, " She is slow in words." 

Laun. O villain, that set this down among her vices ! To be 
slow in words, is a woman's only virtue : I pray thee out with 't, 
and place it for her chief virtue. 

Speed. Item, " She is proud." 

Laun. Out with that too ; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be 
ta'en from her. 

Speed. Item, " She hath no teeth." 

Laun. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. 

Speed. Item, " She is curst." 

Laun. "Well ; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 

Speed. Item, " She will often praise her liquor." 

Laun. If her liquor be good, she shall : if she will not, I 
will ; for good things should be praised. 

Speed. Item, " She is too liberal." 

Laun. Of her tongue she cannot; for that 's writ down she is 
slow of : of her purse she shall not ; for that I '11 keep shut. 

Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit, and more faults 
than hairs, and more wealth than faults." 

Laun. Stop there ; I '11 have her : she was mine, and not mine, 
twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. 

Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit," — 

Laun. More hair than wit, — it may be ; I '11 prove it. The 
cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the 
salt : the hair that covers the wit, is more than the wit ; for the 
greater hides the less. What 's next ? 

Speed. "And more faults than hairs," — 

Laun. That 's monstrous : that that were out ! 

Speed. "And more wealth than faults." 

Laun. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I '11 
have her : and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible, — 

Speed. What then? 

Laun. Why, then I will tell thee, — that thy master stays for 
thee at the north gate. 

Speed. For me ? 

Laun. For thee ? ay ; who art thou ? he hath staid for a bet- 
ter man than thee. 

Speed. And must I go to him ? 

Laun. Thou must run to him, for thou hast staid so long, that 
going will scarce serve the turn. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 443 

Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? 'pox of your love let- 
ters ! (Exit.) 

Zaun. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter : an 
unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets ! — I '11 
after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. shakspeare. 



THE LUDICROUS LOVER. 

PROTEUS THURIO JULIA. 

Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? 

Pro. Oh, sir, I find her milder than she was : 
And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 

Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? 

Pro. No ; that is too little. 

Thu. I '11 wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder. 

Pro. But love will not be spurred to what it loaths. 

Thu. What says she to my face ? 

Pro. She says, it is a fair one. 

Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies, my face is black. 

Pro. But pearls are fair ; and the old saying is, 
Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. 

Jul. 'T 's true ; such pearls as put out ladies' eyes ; 
For I had rather wink than look on them. 

Thu. How likes she my discourse ? 

Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. 

Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and peace ? 

Jul. But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. 

Thu. What says she to my valor ? 

Pro. Oh, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 

Jul. She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. (Aside.) 

Thu. What says she to my birth ? 

Pro. That you are well derived. 

Jul. True ; from a gentleman to a fool. (Aside.) 

Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 

Pro. Oh, ay ; and pities them. 

Thu. Wherefore ? 

Jul. That such an ass should owe them. (Aside.) 

Pro. That they are out by lease. 

Jul. Here comes the duke. — shakspeare. 



444 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



THE CONCEITED STEWARD. 

MALVOLIO SIR TOBY BELCH SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK FABIAN. 

Mai. 'T is but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once told me, 
she did affect me : and I have heard herself come thus near, 
that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Be- 
sides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one 
else that follows her. What should I think on 't ? 

Sir To. Here 's an over-weening rogue ! 

Fab. Oh, peace ! contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of 
him ; how he jets under his advanced plumes ! 

Sir And. 'S light, I could so beat the rogue : — 

Sir To. Peace, I say. 

Mai. To be count Malvolio : — 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace ! 

Mai. There is example for 't ; the lady of the strachy married 
the yeoman of the wardrobe. 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel ! 

Fab. Oh, peace ! now he 's deeply in ; look, how imagina- 
tion blows him. 

Mai. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my 
state, — 

Sir To. 0, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye ! 

Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet 
gown ; having come from a day-bed, where I left Olivia sleeping. 

Sir To. Fire and brimstone ! 

Fab. Oh, peace, peace ! 

Mai. And then to have the humor of state ; and after a de- 
mure travel of regard, — telling them, I know my place, as I 
would they should do theirs, — to ask for my kinsman Toby : 

Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 

Fab. Oh, peace, peace, peace ! now, now. 

Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out 
for him : I frown the while ; and, perchance, wind up my watch, 
or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches ; court' sies 
there to me : — 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet 
peace. 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar 
smile with an austere regard of control : — 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 445 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o' tlie lips then ? 

Mai. Saying, " Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on 
your niece, give me this prerogative of speech — " 

Sir To. What, what ? 

Mai. " You must amend your drunkenness." 

Sir To. Out, scab ! 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. 

Mai. " Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a 
foolish knight — " 

Sir And. That 's me, I warrant you. 

Mai. " One Sir Andrew." 

Sir And. I knew 't was I ; for many call me fool. 

Mai. What employment have we here ? ( Taking up the letter.) 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. Oh, peace ! and the spirit of humors intimate reading 
aloud to him ! 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand : these be her very 
(7's, her CT's, and her T"s ; and thus makes she her great P's. 
It is, in contempt of question, her hand. 

Sir And. Her (7's, her U% and her T's : 
Why that ? 

Mai. (reads.) "To the unknown beloved, this, and my good 
wishes :" her very phrases! — By your leave, wax. Soft ! — 
and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal : 
't is my lady. To whom should this be ? 

Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 

Mai. (reads.) "Jove knows, I love : 

But who ? 
Lips do not move, 
No man must know. 
No man must know." What follows ? the numbers altered ! — 
" No man must know :" — If this should be thee, Malvolio ? 

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock ! 

Mai. " I may command, where I adore : 
But silence, like a Lucrece knife, 
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore ; 
M, 0, A, I, doth sway my life." 

Fab. A fustian riddle ! 

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 

Mai. "M, 0, A, I, doth sway my life." Nay, but first, let 
me see, — let me see, — let me see. 

Fab. What a dish of poison has she dressed him ! 

Sir To. And with what wing the stannyel checks at it ! 

Mai. " I may command where I adore." Why, she may com- 
mand me ; I serve her, she is my lady. — Why, this is evident 



446 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And 
the end, — what should that alphabetical position portend ? if I 
could make that resemble something in me. — Softly ! — M, 0, 
A,L — 

Sir To. Oh, ay ! make up that : — he is now at a cold scent. 

Fab. Sowter will cry upon 't, for all this, though it be as rank 
as a fox. 

Mai. M, — Malvolio ; — M, — why, that begins my name. 

Fab. Did not I say, he would work it out ? the cur is excel- 
lent at faults. 

Mai. M, — But then there is no consonancy in the sequel ; 
that suffers under probation : A should follow, but does. 

Fab. And shall end, I hope. 

Sir To. Ay, or I '11 cudgel him, and make him cry 0. 

Mai. And then /comes behind. 

Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see 
more detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you. 

Mai. " M, 0, A, I ;" — This simulation is not as the former : 
and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every 
one of these letters are in my name. Soft ! here follows prose. 
" If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above 
thee : but be not afraid of greatness ; some are born great, some 
achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. 
Thy fates open their hands : let thy blood and spirit embrace 
them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast 
thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a 
kinsman, surly with servants : let thy tongue tang arguments 
of state ; put thyself into the trick of singularity : she thus ad- 
vises thee, that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy 
yellow stockings ; and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered : 
I say, remember. Go to ; thou art made, if thou desirest to be 
so : if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, 
and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that 
would alter services with thee, 

" The Fortunate -Unhappy." 
Day- light and champian discovers not more : this is open. I 
will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, 
I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-de-vice, the 
very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade 
me ; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. 
She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my 
leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she manifests herself to 
my love, and, with a kind of injunction, drives me to these 
habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be 
strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. . 447 

the swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised ! — 
Here is yet a postscript. " Thou canst not choose but know 
who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy 
smiling ; thy smiles become thee well : therefore in my presence 
still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee." Jove, I thank thee. 
I will smile ; I will do everything that thou wilt have me. (JExit. ) 

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of 
thousands to be paid from the Sophy. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device. 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her but such another 

jest. SHAKSPEARE. 



THE FOOL IN OFFICE. 

DOGBERRY VERGES CONRADE BORACHIO SEXTON WATCH. 

(Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton in gowns ; and the Watch, with 
Conrade and Borachio.) 

Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 

Verg. 0, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. 

Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 

Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner. 

Verg. Nay, that 's certain; we have the exhibition to examine. 

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined ? 
let them come before master constable. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What is your 
name, friend ? 

Bora. Borachio. 

Dogb. Pray, write down — Borachio. Yours, sirrah ? 

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. 

Dogb. Write down — master gentleman Conrade. — Masters, 
do you serve God ? 

Con. Bora. Ye>, sir, we hope. 

Dogb. Write down — that they hope tney serve God : — and 
write God first : for God defend but God should go before such 
villains ! — Masters, it is proved already that you are little better 
than false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. 
How answer you for yourselves ? 

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 

Dogb. A marvelous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I will go 
about with him. — Come you hither, sirrah ; a word in your 
ear, sir ; I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. 



448 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 

Dogb. Well, stand aside. — 'Fore God, they are both in a 
tale : have yon writ down — that they are none ? 

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine : 
you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest way : let the watch 
come forth : — Masters, I charge you in the prince's name, 
accuse these men. 

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's 
brother, was a villain. 

Dogb. Write down — Prince John a villain : — why this is flat 
perjury, to call a prince's brother — villain. 

Bora. Master constable, — 

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I 
promise thee. 

Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of 
Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. 

Dogb. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. 
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
Sexton. What else, fellow ? 

1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, 
to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. 

Dogb. villain ! thou will be condemned into everlasting 
redemption for this. 
Sexton. What else ? 

2 Watch. This is all. 

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince 
John is this morning secretly stolen away ; Hero was in this 
manner accused, in this very manner refused, and upon the 
grief of this, suddenly died. Master constable, let these men 
be bound, and brought to Leonato's ; I will go before, and show 
him their examination. (Exit.) 

Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned. 

Verg. Let them be in band. 

Con. Off, coxcomb ! 

Dogb. God 's my life ! where 's the sexton ? let him write 
down — the prince's officer, coxcomb. — Come, bind them. — 
Thou naughty varlet ! 

Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. 

Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect 
my years ? — that he were here to write me down — an ass ! — 
but, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though it be not writ- 
ten down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, 
thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 449 

witness. I am a wise fellow ; and, which is more, an officer ; 
and, which is more, a householder ; and, which is more, as 
pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina ; and one that knows 
the law, go to ; and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow 
that hath had losses ; and one that hath two gowns, and every 
thing handsome about him : — bring him away. 0, that Iliad 
been writ down — an ass. shakspeare. 



DOGBERRY'S CHARGE. 

DOGBERRY VERGES WATCH. 

Dogb. Are you good men and true ? 

Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salva- 
tion, body and soul. 

Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if 
they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the 
prince's watch. 

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. 

Dogb. First, who think you the most disheartless man to be 
constable ? 

1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they 
can write and read. 

Dogb. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you 
with a good name : to be a well-favored man is the gift of for- 
tune ; but to write and read comes by nature. 

2 Watch. Both which, master constable, — 

Dogb. You have ; I knew it would be your answer. Well, 
for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast 
of it ; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when 
there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be 
the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; 
therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge ; — you 
shall comprehend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man 
stand, in the prince's name. 

2 Watch. How if he will not stand ? 

Dogb. Why then, take no note of him, but let him go ; and 
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you 
are rid of a knave. 

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of 
the prince's subjects. 

Dogb. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's 
subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for 
33 



450 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be 
endured. 

2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; we know what 
belongs to a watch. 

Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watch- 
man ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : only, have a 
care that your bills be not stolen : — Well, you are to call at all 
the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 

2 Watch. How if they will not ? 

Dogb. Why then, let them alone till they are sober ; if they 
make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are 
not the men you took them for. 

2 Watch. Well, sir. 

Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue 
of your office, to be no true man : and, for such kind of men, 
the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for 
your honesty. 

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands 
on him ? 

Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may ; but, I think, they 
that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peaceable way for 
you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he 
is, and steal out of your company. 

Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. 

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will ; much 
more a man who hath any honesty in him. 

Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to 
the nurse, and bid her still it. 

2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us. 

Dogb. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her 
with crying : for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it 
baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. 

Verg. 'T is very true. 

Dogb. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to 
present the prince's own person ; if you meet the prince in the 
night, you may stay him. 

Verg. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot. 

Dogb. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows 
the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without the prince be 
willing : for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man ; and it 
is an offense to stay a man against his will. 
Verg. By 'r lady, I think, it be so. 

Dogb. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, masters, good night : an there be 
any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your fellows' 
counsels and your own, and good night. — Come, neighbor. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 451 

2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us go sit 
here upon the church-hench till two, and then all to bed. 

Dogb. One word more, honest neighbors : I pray you, watch 
about Signior Leonato's door ; for the wedding being there to- 
morrow, there is a great coil to-night : — adieu, be vigilant, I 
beseech you. shakspeare. 



THE AMATEUR TRAGEDIANS. 

SNUG — BOTTOM FLUTE — SNOUT QUINCE — STARVELING. 

Quin. Is all our company here ? 

Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, ac- 
cording to the scrip. 

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought 
fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the duke 
and duchess, on his wedding-day at night. 

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on ; 
then read the names of the actors ; and so grow to a point. 

Quin. Marry, our play is — The most lamentable comedy, 
and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby. 

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. 
Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll : 
masters, spread yourselves. 

Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bottom, the weaver. 
Bot. Ready : name what part I am for, and proceed. 
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. 
Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? 
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. 
Bot. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it : 
if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes ; I will move 
storms ; I will condole in some measure. To the rest : — Yet 
my chief humor is for a tyrant : I could play Ercles rarely, or a 
part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 
" The raging rocks, 
With shivering shocks, 
Shall break the locks 

Of prison gates ; 
And Phibbus' car 
Shall shine from far, 
And make and mar 
The foolish fates." 



452 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

This was lofty ! — ISFow name the rest of the players. — This is 
Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein ; a lover is more condoling. 

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 

Jilu. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You must take Thisby on you. 

Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ? 

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 

Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman ; I have a beard 
coming. 

Quin. That 's all one ; you shall play it in a mask, and you 
may speak as small as you will. 

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too : I '11 
speak in a monstrous little voice — " Thisne, Thisne. — Ah, 
Pyramus, my lover dear ; thy Thisby dear ! and lady dear ! " 

Quin. No, no ; you must play Pyramus, and, Flute, you 
Thisby. 

Bot. Well, proceed. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 

Star. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother. — 
Tom Snout, the tinker. 

Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You, Pyramus's father ; myself, Thisby's father ; Snug, 
the joiner, you, the lion's part : — and, I hope, here is a play fitted. 

S?iug. Have you the lion's part written ? pray you, if it be, 
give it me, for I am slow of study. 

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. 

Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I will do any 
man's heart good to hear me ; I will roar, that I will make the 
duke say, "Let him roar again, let him roar again." 

Quin. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the 
duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and that were 
enough to hang us all. 

All. That would hang us every mother's son. 

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies 
out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to 
hang us ; but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you 
as gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar you an 't were any 
nightingale. 

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus ; for Pyramus is a 
sweet-faced man — a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's 
day — a most lovely, gentleman-like man ; therefore, you must 
needs play Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to 
plav it in ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 453 

Quin. Why, what you will. 

Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colored beard, 
your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your 
French-crown-color beard, your perfect yellow. 

Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and 
then you will play barefaced. — But, masters, here are your 
parts : and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to 
con them by to-morrow night ; and meet me in the palace wood, 
a mile without the town, by moonlight ; there will we rehearse : 
for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, 
and our devices known. In the meantime, I will draw a bill of 
properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 

Bot. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse more obscenely 
and courageously. Take pains ; be perfect ; adieu. 

Quin. At the duke's oak we meet. 

Bot. Enough ; hold, or cut bow-strings. shakspeare. 



FATHER'S WIT AND MOTHER'S TONGUE. 

ARMADO MOTH. 

Arm.. Boy, what sign is it, when a man of great spirit grows 
melancholy ? 

Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. 

Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. 

Moth. No, no ; Lord, sir, no. 

Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my ten- 
der juvenal ? 

Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough 
senior. 

Arm. Why tough senior ? why tough senior ? 

Moth. Why tender juvenal ? why tender juvenal ? 

Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton, 
appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. 

Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old 
time, which we may name tough. 

Arm. Pretty and apt. 

Moth. How mean you, sir ? I pretty, and my saying apt ? or 
I apt, and my saying pretty ? 

Arm. Thou pretty, because little. 

Moth. Little pretty, because little : — wherefore apt? 

Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. 



454 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ? 

Arm. In thy condign praise. 

Moth. I will praise an eel with the same praise. 

Arm. What ? that an eel is ingenious ? 

Moth. That an eel is quick. 

Arm. I do say, thou art quick in answers : 
Thou heatest my blood. 

Moth. I am answered, sir. 

Arm. I love not to be crossed. 

Moth. He speaks the mere contrary : crosses love not him. 

(Aside.) 

Arm. I have promised to study three years with the duke. 

Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. 

Arm. Impossible. 

Moth. How many is one thrice told ? 

Arm. I am ill at reckoning ; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. 

Moth. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. 

Arm. I confess both ; they are both the varnish of a complete 
man. 

Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of 
deuce-ace amounts to. 

Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. 

Moth. Which the base vulgar do call, three. 

Arm. True. 

Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study ? Now, here is 
three studied, ere you '11 thrice wink : and how easy it is to put 
years to the word three, and study three years in two words, the 
dancing horse will tell you. 

Arm. A most fine figure ! 

Moth. To prove you a cipher. (Aside.) 

Arm. I will hereupon confess, I am in love ; and, as it is base 
for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If draw- 
ing my sword against the humor of affection would deliver me 
from the reprobate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner, 
and ransom him to any French courtier for a new devised cour- 
tesy. I think scorn to sigh ; methinks I should outswear Cupid. 
Comfort me, boy : what great men have been in love ? 

Moth. Hercules, master. 

Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! — More authority, dear boy ; 
name more ; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good re- 
pute and carriage. 

Moth. Samson, master : he was a man of good carriage, great 
carnage ; for he carried the town-gates on his back, like a porter : 
and he was in love. 

Arm. 0, well-knit Samson ! strong-jointed Samson ! I do 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 455 

excel thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst me in carrying 
gates. I am in love too, — who was Samson's love, my dear 
Moth? 

Moth. A woman, master. 

Arm. Of what complexion ? 

Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the 
four. 

Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion. 

Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. 

Arm. Is that one of the four complexions ? 

Moth. As I have read, sir ; and the best o' them too. 

Arm. Green, indeed, is the color of lovers ; but to have a love 
of that color, methinks, Samson had small reason for it. He, 
surely, affected her for her wit. 

Moth. It was so, sir ; for she had a green wit. 

Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red. 

Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under 
such colors. 

Arm. Define, define, well educated infant. 

Moth. My father's wit and my mother's tongue assist me ! 

Arm. Sweet invocation of a child ; most pretty, and pathetical ! 

Moth. If she be made of white and red, 
Her faults will ne'er be known ; 
For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, 

And fears by pale-white shown : 
Then, if she fear, or be to blame, 

By this you shall not know ; 
For still her cheeks possess the same, 
Which native she doth owe. 
A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. 

Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar ? 

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three 
ages since ; but, I think, now 't is not to be found ; or, if it were, 
it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. 

Arm. I will have the subject newly writ o'er, that I may ex- 
ample my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love 
that country girl, that I took in the park with the rational hind 
Costard ; she deserves well. 

Moth. To be whipped ; and yet a better love than my master. 

(Aside.) 

Arm. 3ing, boy ; my spirit grows heavy in love. 

Moth. And that 's great marvel, loving a light wench. 

Arm. I say, sing. 

Moth. Forbear till this company be past. shakspeare. 



456 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE USURER'S BOND. 

ANTONIO BASSANIO SHYLOCK. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. 

Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shy. For three months, — well. 

Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 

Bass. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure me ? Shall I 
know your answer ? 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio 
bound. 

Bass. Your answer to that. 

Shy. Antonio is a good man. 

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? 

Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no ; — my meaning, in saying he is a 
good man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient : 
yet his means are in supposition : he hath an argosy bound to 
Tripolis, another to the Indies : I understand moreover upon the 
Kialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, — and 
other ventures he hath, squandered abroad : but ships are but 
boards, sailors but men : there be land-rats, and water-rats, 
water-thieves, and land -thieves ; I mean, pirates ; and then, there 
is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks : the man is, notwith- 
standing, sufficient ; — three thousand ducats ; — I think, I may 
take his bond. 

Bass. Be assured you may. 

Shy. I will be assured I may : and, that I may be assured, I 
will bethink me : may I speak with Antonio. 

Bass. If it please you to dine with us. 

Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your 
prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into : I will buy with 
you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so follow- 
ing ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with 
you. What news on the Rialto ? — Who is he comes here ? 

(Enter Antonio. )\ 

Bass. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shy. (Aside.) How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him for he is a Christian : 
But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 457 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest : — cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him ! 

£ass. Shylock, do you hear ? 

Shy. I am debating of my present store ; 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
Will furnish me : — but soft ; — how many months 
Do you desire ? — Rest you fair, good signior ; ( Tv Amnnvx ) 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow, 
By taking, nor by giving of excess, 
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
I '11 break a custom : — Is he yet possessed, 
How much you would ? 

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 

Ant. And for three months. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, — 't is a good round sum. 
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. 

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you ? 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys, and my usances : 
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug ; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe : 
You call me — misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well then, it now appears, you need my help : 
Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 
" Shylock, we would have moneys ;" you say so, 
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, 
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 
What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 
" Hath a dog money ? is it possible, 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? " or 
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness, 
Say this, — 

" Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last ; 
39 



458 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

You spurned me such a day ; another time 
You called me — dog ; and for these courtesies 
I '11 lend you thus much moneys." 

Ant. I am as like to call thee so again. 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends ; (for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ?) 
But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 
Who if he break, thou may'st with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! 
I would be friends with you, and have your love, 
Forget the shames that you have stained me with, 
Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
Of usance for my moneys, and you '11 not hear me : 
This is kind I offer. 

Ant. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show : — 

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum, or sums, as are 
Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant. Content, in faith ; I '11 seal to such a bond, 
And say, there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, 
I '11 rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it ; 
Within these two months, that 's a month before 
This bond expires, I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shy. O, father Abraham, what these Christians are 
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 
If he should break his day, what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 
A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
To buy his favor, I extend this friendship : 
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 459 

And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. 

Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight ; 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 
I will be with you. (Exit.) 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 

This Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. 

Bass. I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind. 

Ant. Come on : in this there can be no dismay, 
My ships come home a month before the day. shakspeare. 



THE MILD THREAT. 

TOUCHSTONE WILLIAM 



Touch. Good even, gentle friend : cover thy head, cover thy 
head : nay, pray thee, be covered. How old are you, friend ? 

Will. Five and twenty, sir. 

Touch. A ripe age : is thy name William ? 

Will. William, sir. 

Touch. A fair name : wast born in the forest here ? 

Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. 

Touch. " Thank God ; " — a good answer : art rich ? 

Will. Faith, sir, so, so. 

Touch. " So, so," is good, very good, very excellent good : — 
and yet it is not ; it is but so, so. Art thou wise ? 

Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 

Touch. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying, 
" The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows him- 
self to be a fool." The heathen philosopher, when he had a 
desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his 
mouth ; meaning thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and lips 
to open. You do love this maid ? 

Will. I do, sir. 

Touch. Give me your hand : art thou learned ? 

Will. No, sir. 

Touch. Then learn this of me : to have, is to have : for it is 
a figure in rhetoric, that drink, being poured out of a cup into a 
glass, by filling the one doth empty the other : for all your 



460 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

writers do consent, that ipse is he ; now you are not ipse, I for 
am he. 

Will. Which he, sir ? 

Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman ; therefore, you 
clown, abandon, — which is in the vulgar, leave, — the society, — 
which in the boorish is, company, — of this female, — which in 
the common is, woman, which together is, abandon the society of 
this female ; or, clown, thou perishest ; or, to thy better under- 
standing, diest ; to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy 
life into death, thy liberty into bondage : I will deal in poison 
with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel ; I will bandy with thee in 
faction ; I will over-run thee with policy ; I will kill thee a hun- 
dred and fifty ways ; therefore tremble, and depart. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



THE QUARREL ON THE SEVENTH CAUSE. 

TOUCHSTONE JAQUES DUKE, SENIOR . 

Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all ! 

Jaq. Good, my lord, bid him welcome : this is the motley- 
minded gentleman, that I have so often met in the forest ; he 
hath been a courtier, he swears. 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purga- 
tion. I have trod a measure ; I have nattered a lady ; I have 
been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy ; I have 
undone three tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
fought one. 

Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ? 

Touch. 'Faith, we met and found the quarrel was upon the 
seventh cause. 

Jaq. How seventh cause ? — Good, my lord, like this fellow. 

Duke S. I like him very well. 

Touch. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the like. I press in 
here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear, 
and to forswear : according as marriage binds, and blood breaks : 
a poor virgin, sir, an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own ; a poor 
humor of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will : rich 
honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house ; as your pearl, 
in your foul oyster. 

Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious. 

Touch. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet dis- 
eases. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 461 

Jaq. But, for the seventh cause ; how did you find the quar- 
rel on the seventh cause ? 

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed ; — bear your body 
more seemingly, Audry : — as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut 
of a certain courtier's beard ; he sent me word, if I said his 
beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was : this is called 
the Retort courteous. If I sent him word again, it was not well 
cut, he would send me word, he cut it to please himself: this is 
called the Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled 
my judgment : this is called the Reply churlish. If again, it 
was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true : this is 
called the Reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he 
would say, I lie : this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome : 
and so to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct. 

Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was not well cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no farther than the Lie circumstantial, nor 
he durst not give me the Lie direct ; so we measured swords, 
and parted. 

Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie ? 

Touch. sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ; as you have 
books for good manners : I will name you the degrees. The 
first, the Retort courteous ; the second, the Quip modest ; the 
third, the Reply churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof valiant ; the 
fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie with 
circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these you may 
avoid, but the Lie direct ; and you may avoid that, too, with an 
If. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel ; 
but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought 
but of an If, as, "If you said so, then I said so ; " and they 
shook hands, and swore brothers. Your If is the only peace- 
maker ; much virtue in If. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he 's as good at any 
thing, and yet a fool. 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the 
presentation of that, he shoots his wit. shakspeare. 



AN ANSWER TO FIT ANY QUESTION. 

COUNTESS CLOWN. 

Count. Come on, sir ; I shall now put you to the hight of 
your breeding. 

Clo. I will show myself highly fed, and lowly taught : I know 
my business is but to the court. 



462 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Count. To the court ! why, what place make you special, 
when you put off that with such contempt ? But to the court ! 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he 
may easily put it off at court : he that cannot make a leg, put 
off 's cap, kiss his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, 
lip, nor cap ; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were 
not for the court. But, for me, I have an answer will serve all 
men. 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions ? 

Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney. As 
a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the 
friar's mouth ; nay, as the pudding to his skin. 

Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all 
questions ? 

Clo. From below your duke, to beneath your constable, it 
will fit any question. 

Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous size, that 
must fit all demands. 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should 
speak truth of it : here it is, and all that belongs to 't : Ask me, 
if I am a courtier ; it shall do you no harm to learn. 

Count. To be young again, if we could : I will be a fool in 
question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, 
sir, are you a courtier ? 

Clo. O Lord, sir, There 's a simple putting off; — more, 

more, a hundred of them. 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you. 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Thick, thick, spare not me. 

Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat. 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Nay, put me to 't, I warrant you. 

Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Spare not me. 

Count. Do you cry, " Lord, sir," at your whipping, and 
" spare not me ? " Indeed, your " lord, sir," is very sequent 
to your whipping ; you would answer very well to a whipping, 
if you were but bound to 't. 

Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life, in my " Lord, sir." 
I see, things may serve long, but not serve ever. 

Count. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain 
it so merrily with a fool. 

Clo. Lord, sir, — Why, ther 't serves well again. 

Count. An end, sir, to your business : Give Helen this, 
And urge her to a present answer back : 
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son ; 
This is not much. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 463 

Glo. Not much commendation to them. 
Count. Not much employment for you : 
You understand me ? 

Clo. Most fruitfully ; I am there before my legs. 

Count. Haste you again. shakspeare. 



IAGO INCITING OTHELLO TO JEALOUSY. 



lago. My noble Lord. 

Oth. What dost thou say, lago ? 

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, 
Know of your love ? 

Oth. He did, from first to last : Why dost thou ask ? 

Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought ; 
No further harm. 

Oth. Why of thy thought, Iago ? 

Iago. I did not think, he had been acquainted with her. 

Oth. 0, yes ; and went between us very oft. 

Iago. Indeed ? 

Oth. Indeed ! ay, indeed : — Discern'st thou aught in that ? 
Is he not honest ? 

Iago. Honest, my lord ? 

Oth. Aye, honest. 

Iago. My lord, for aught I know. 

Oth. What dost thou think ? 

Iago. Think, my lord ? 

Oth. Think, my lord ! 

By heaven, he echoes me, 
As if there were some monster in his thought 
Too hideous to be shown. — Thou dost mean something : 
I heard thee say but now, — Thou likedst not that, 
When Cassio left my wife ; What did'st not like ? 
And, when I told thee — he was of my counsel 
In my whole course of wooing, thou cry'dst, Indeed! 
And didst contract and purse thy brow together, 
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 
Some horrible conceit : If thou dost love me, 
Show me thy thought. 

Iago. My lord, you know I love you. 
Oth. I think, thou dost : 

And — for I know thou art full of love and honesty, 



464 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath, — 

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more : 

For such things, in a false disloyal knave, 

Are tricks of custom ; but, in a man that 's just, 

They are close denotements, working from the heart, 

That passion cannot rule. 

Iago. For Michael Cassio, — 

I dare be sworn, I think that he is honest. 

Oth. I think so too. 

Iago. Men should be what they seem , 

Or, those that be not, 'would they might seem none ! 

Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem. 

Iago. Why then, 

I think that Cassio is an honest man. 

Oth. Nay, yet there 's more in this : 
I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, 
As thou dost ruminate ; and give thy worst of thoughts 
The worst of words. 

Iago. Good my lord, pardon me : 

Though I am bound to every act of duty, 
I am not bound to that all slaves are free to, 
Utter my thoughts ? Why, say, they are vile and false, — 
As where 's that palace, whereinto foul things 
Sometimes intrude not ? who has a breast so pure, 
But some uncleanly apprehensions 
Keep leets, and law-days, and in sessions sit 
With meditations lawful ? 

Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, 
If thou but think'st him wronged, and mak'st his ear 
A stranger to thy thoughts. 

Iago. I do beseech you, — 

Though I, perchance, am vicious in my guess, 
As, I confess, it is my nature's plague 
To spy into abuses ; and, oft, my jealousy 
Shapes faults that are not, — I entreat you then, 
From one that so imperfectly conjects, 
You 'd take no notice ; nor build yourself a trouble 
Out of his scattering and unsure observance ; 
It were not for your quiet, nor your good, 
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, 
To let you know my thoughts. 

Oth. . What dost thou mean ? 

Iago. Good name, in man, and woman, dear my lord, 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls ; 
Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 't is something, nothing 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 465 

'T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to thousands ; 
But he, that filches from me my good name, 
Robs me of that, which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed. 

Oth. By heaven, I '11 know thy thought. 

Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand ; 
Nor shall not, whilst 't is in my custody. 

Oth. Ha! 

Iago. 0, beware, my lord, of jealousy. 

It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock 
The meat it feeds on : That cuckold lives in bliss, 
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; 
But, 0, what damned minutes tells he o'er, 
Who dotes, yet doubts ; suspects, yet strongly loves ! 

Oth. misery ! 

Iago. Poor, and content, is rich, and rich enough ; 
But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, 
To him that ever fears he shall be poor : — 
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend 
From jealousy ! 

Oth. Why ? why is this ? . 

Think'st thou, I 'd make a life of jealousy, 
To follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions ? No : to be once in doubt, 
Is — once to be resolved : Exchange me for a goat, 
When I shall turn the business of my soul 
To such exsufficate and blown surmises, 
Matching thy inference. 'T is not to make me jealous, 
To say — my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, 
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well ; 
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous : 
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw 
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt ; 
For she had eyes, and chose me : No, Iago ; 
I '11 see, before I doubt ; when I doubt, prove, 
And, on the proof, there is no more but this, — 
Away at once with love, or jealousy. 

Iago. I am glad of this, for now I shall have reason 
To show the love and duty that I bear you 
With franker spirit ; therefore, as I am bound, 
Receive it from me : — I speak not yet of proof. 
Look to your wife ; observe her well with Cassio ; 
Wear your eye — thus, not jealous, nor secure ; 
I would not have your free and noble nature, 
Out of self-bounty, be abused ; look to 't : 



466 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

I know our country disposition well ; 

In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks 

They dare not show their husbands ; their best conscience 

Is — not to leave undone, but keep unknown. 

Oth. Dost thou say so ? 

lago. She did deceive her father, marrying you : 
And, when she seemed to shake, and fear your looks, 
She loved them most. 

Oth. And so she did. 

Iago. Why, go to, then : 

She that, so young, could give out such a seeming 
To seel her father's eyes up, close as oak, — 
He that, 't was witchcraft : — But I am much to blame ; 
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon, 
For too much loving you. 

Oth. I am bound to thee for ever. 

Iago. I see, this hath a little dashed your spirits. 

Oth. Not a jot, not a jot. 

lago. Trust me, I fear it has. 

I hope, you will consider, what is spoke 
Comes from my love ; — But, I do see you are moved : ■ — 
I am to pray you, not to strain my speech 
To grosser issues, nor to larger reach, 
Than to suspicion. 

Oth. I will not. 

Iago. Should you do so, my lord, 

My speech should fall in such vile success 
As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio 's my worthy friend : 
My lord, I see you are moved. 

Oth. No, not much moved : — 

I do not think but Desdemona 's honest. 

Iago. Long live she so, and long live you to think so ! 

Oth. And yet, how nature erring from itself, — 

Iago. Ay, there 's the point — As, — to be bold with you, 
Not to affect many proposed matches, 
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree ; 
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends : 
Foh! one may smell, in such, a will most rank, 
Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. — 
But pardon me ; I do not, in position, 
Distinctly speak of her : though I may fear, 
Her will, recoiling to her better judgment, 
May fall to match you with her country forms ; 
And (happily) repent. 

Oth. Farewell, farewell. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 467 

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more ; 
Set on thy wife to observe : Leave me, Iago. 

Iago. My lord, I take my leave. ( Going.) 

Oth. Why did I marry ? — This honest creature, doubtless, 
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. 

Iago. My lord, I would I might entreat your honor 
To scan this thin** no further : leave it to time : 
And, though it be fit that Cassio have his place, 
(For, sure, he fills it up with great ability,) 
Yet, if you please to hold him off a while, 
You shall by that perceive him and his means : 
Note if your lady strain his entertainment 
With any strong or vehement opportunity ; 
Much will be seen in that. In the mean time, 
Let me be thought too busy in my fears, 
(As worthy cause I have, to fear — I am,) 
And hold her free, I do beseech your honor. 

Oth. Fear not my government. 

Iago. I once more take my leave. {Exit.) 

Oth. This fellow 's of exceeding honesty, 
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, 
Of human dealings : If I do prove her haggard, 
Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings, 
I 'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind, 
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black ; 
And have not those soft parts of conversation 
That chamberer's have : — Or, for I am declined 
Into the vale of years ; — yet that 's not much ; — 
She 's gone ; I am abused ; and my relief 
Must be — to loath her. curse of marriage, 
That we can call these delicate creatures ours, 
And not their appetites ! I had rather be a toad, 
And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, 
Than keep a corner in the thing I love 
For others' uses. Yet, 't is the plague of great ones ; 
Prerogatived are they less than the base ; 
'T is destiny unshunnable, like death ; 
Even then this forked plague is fated to us, 
When we do quicken. Desdemona comes. shakspeare. 



468 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE CHOLERIC PRINCE. 

CLOTEN— TWO LORDS. 

Old. Was there ever man had such luck ! when I kissed the 
jack upon an up-cast, to be hit away ! I had a hundred pound 
on 't : And then a jackanapes must take me up for swearing ; 
as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them 
at my pleasure. 

1 Lord. What got he by that? You have broke his pate 
with your bowl. • 

■ 2. Lord. If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would 
have ran all out. (Aside.) 

Col. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any 
standers-by to curtail his oaths ; Ha ? 

2 Lord. No, my lord ; nor (Aside.) crop the ears of them. 
Clo. Dog ! — I give him satisfaction? 'Would, he had been 

one of my rank : 

2 Lord. To have smelt like a fool. (Aside.) 

Clo. I am not more vext at any thing in the earth, — A pox 
on 't ! I had rather not be so noble as I am ; they dare not 
fight with me, because of the queen my mother : every jack- 
slave hath his belly full of fighting, and I must go up and down 
like a cock that nobody can match. 

2 Lord. You are a cock and capon too ; and you crow, cock, 
with your comb on. (Aside.) 

Clo. Sayestthou? 

1 Lord. It is not fit, your lordship should undertake every 
companion that } r ou give offense to. 

Clo. No, I know that : but it is fit, I should commit offense 
to my inferiors. 

2 Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. 
Clo. Why, so I say, 

1 Lord. Did you hear of a stranger, that's come to court to- 
night ? 

Col. A stranger ! and I know not on 't ! 

2 Lord. He 's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. 

(Aside.) 

1 Lord. There 's an Italian come ; and, 't is thought one of 
Leonatus' friends. 

Clo. Leonatus ! a banished rascal ; and he 's another, what- 
soever he be. Who told you of this stranger ? 

1 Lord. One of your lordship's pages. 

Clo. Is it fit I went to look upon him ? Is there no deroga- 
tion in 't ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 469 

1 Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord. 
Clo. Not easily, I think. 

2 Lord. You are a fool granted ; therefore your issues being 
foolish, do not derogate. (Aside!) 

Col. Come, I '11 go see this Italian : What I have lost to-day 
at bowls, I '11 win to-night of him. Come, go. shakspeare. 



THE TWO MURDERERS. 

FIRST MURDERER — SECOND MURDERER. 

2 Murd. What, shall we stab him as he sleeps ? 

1 Murd. No ; he '11 say, 't was done cowardly, when he 
wakes. 

2 Murd. When he wakes ! why, fool, he shall never wake 
until the great judgment day. 

1 Murd. Why, then he '11 say, we stabbed him sleeping. 

2 Murd. The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind 
of remorse in me. 

1 Murd. What ? art thou afraid ? 

2 Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant for it ; but to be 
damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend 
me. 

1 Murd. I thought thou hadst been resolute. 

2 Murd. So I am, to let him live. 

1 Murd. I '11 back to the duke of Gloster, and tell him so. 

2 Murd. Nay, I pr'y thee, stay a little : I hope, this holy 
humor of mine will change ; it was wont to hold me but while 
one would tell twenty. 

1 Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 

2 Murd. 'Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet with- 
in me. 

1 Murd. Remember our reward, when the deed 's done. 

2 Murd. Come, he dies ; I had forgot the reward. 

1 Murd. Wher 's thy conscience now ? 

2 Murd. In the duke of Gloster's purse. 

1 Murd. So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, 
thy conscience flies out. 

2. Murd. 'Tis no matter ; let it go; there 's few, or none, 
will entertain it. 

1 Murd. What, if it come to thee again ? 

2 Murd. I '11 not meddle with it, it is a dangerous thing, it 
makes a man a coward ; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth 



470 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

him ; a man cannot swear, but it checks him ; a man cannot lie 
with his neighbor's wife, but it detects him: 'Tis a blushing 
shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom ; it fills one 
full of obstacles : it made me once restore a purse of gold, that 
by chance I found ; it beggars any man that keeps it : it is 
turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing ; and 
every man, that means to live well, endeavors to trust himself, 
and live without it. 

1 Murd. 'Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading 
me not to kill the duke. 

2 Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not : he 
would insinuate with thee, but to make thee sigh. 

1 Murd. I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me. 

2 Murd. Spoke like a tall fellow, that respects his reputation. 
Come, shall we fall to work ? 

1 Murd. Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy 
sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-butt, in the next 
room. 

2 Murd. excellent device ! and make a sop of him. 

1 Murd. Soft ! he wakes. 

2 Murd. Strike. 

1 Murd. No, we '11 reason with him. shakspeare. 



THE GRIEF OF MACDUFF. 

MALCOLM MACDUFF ROSSE. 



Macd. See, who comes here ? 

Mai. My countryman ; but yet I know him not. 

Macd. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither. 

Mai. I know him now : Good God, betimes remove 
The means that make us strangers ! 

Rosse. Sir, Amen. 

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ? 

Rosse. Alas, poor country ; 
Almost afraid to know itself ! It cannot 
Be called our mother, but our grave : where nothing, 
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air 
Are made, not marked ; where violent sorrow seems 
A modern ecstasy ; the dead men's knell 
Is there scarce asked, for who ; and good men's lives 



DIALOGUES — SERIOUS AND COMIC, 471 

Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
Dying, or ere they sicken. 

Macd. 0, relation, 
Too nice, and yet too true ! 

Mai. What is the newest grief? 

Bosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; 
Each minute teems a new one. 

Macd. How does my wife ? 

Bosse. Why, well. 

Macd. And all my children ? 

Bosse. Well, too. 

Macd. The tyrant has not battered at their peace ? 

Bosse. No ; they were well at peace, when I did leave them. 

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech : how goes it ? 

Bosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings, 
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor 
Of many worthy fellows that were out ; 
Which was to my belief witnessed the rather, 
For that I saw the tyrant's power afoot : 
Now is the time of help ; your eye in Scotland 
Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 
To doff their dire distresses. 

Mai. Be it their comfort, 
We are coming thither : gracious England hath 
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men ; 
An older, and a better soldier, none 
That Christendon gives out. 

Bosse. Would I could answer 
This comfort with the like ! But I have words, 
That would be howled out in the desert air, 
Where hearing should not latch them. 

Macd. What concern they ? 
The general cause ? or is it a free-grief, 
Due to some single breast ? 

Bosse. No mind, that 's honest, 
But in it shares some woe ; though the main part 
Pertains to you alone. 

Macd. If it be mine, 
Keep it not from me ; quickly let me have it. 

Bosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, 
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound 
That ever yet they heard. 

Macd. Humph ! I guess at it. 

Bosse. Your castle is surprised ; your wife and babes 
Savagely slaughtered : to relate the manner, 



472 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer. 
To add the death of you. 

Mai. Merciful heaven ! — 
What ! man, ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ; 
Give sorrow words : the grief, that does not speak, 
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 

Macd. My children, too ? 

Bosse. Wife, children, servants, all 
That could be found. 

Macd. And I must be from thence ! 
My wife killed too ! 

Bosse. I have said. 

Mai. Be comforted : 
Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief. 

Macd. He has no children. — All my pretty ones ? 
Did you say, all ? — 0, hell-kite ! — All ? 
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, 
At one fell swoop ? 

Mai. Dispute it like a man. 

Macd. I shall do so ; * 

But I must also feel it as a man : 
I cannot but remember such things were, 
That were most precious to me. — Did heaven look on, 
And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, 
They were all struck for thee ! naught that I am, 
Not for their own demerits, but for mine, 
Fell slaughter on their souls : — Heaven rest them now ! 

Mai. Be this the whetstone of your sword : let grief 
Convert to anger ; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 

Macd. 0, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
And braggart with my tongue ! — But, gentle heaven, 
Cut short all intermission ; front to front, 
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape, 
Heaven forgive him too ! 

Mai. This tune goes manly. 
Come, go we to the king ; our power is ready ; 
Our lack is nothing, but our leave ; Macbeth 
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may ; 
The night is long, that never finds the day. shakspeare. 






DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 473 

THE DANISH SENTINELS. 

FRANCISCO BERNARDO HORATIO MARCELLUS GHOST. 

Ber. Who 's there ? 

Fran. Nay, answer me : stand, and unfold 
Yourself. 

Ber. Lono- live the king ! 

Fran. Bernardo ? 

Ber. He. 

Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour. 

Ber. 'T is now struck twelve, get thee to bed, Francisco. 

Fran. For this relief much thanks : 't is bitter cold, 
And I am sick at heart. 

Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? 

Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 

Ber. Well, good night. 
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 
The rivals of my watch, bid them haste. 

( Enter Horatio and Marcellus.) 

Fran. I think I hear them. — Stand, ho ! Who is there ? 

Hor. Friends to this ground. 

Mar. And liegemen to the Dane. 

Fran. Give you good night. 

Mar. 0, farewell, honest soldier : 

Who hath relieved you ? 

Fran. Bernardo hath my place. 

Give you good night. (Fxit Francisco.) 

Mar. Holla ! Bernardo ! 

Ber. Say. 

What, is Horatio there ? 

Hor. A piece of him. 

Ber. Welcome, Horatio ; welcome, good Marcellus. 

Hor. What, has this thing appeared again to-night ? 

Ber. I have seen nothing. 

Mar. Horatio says, 't is but our fantasy ; 
And will not let belief take hold of him, 
Touching this dreadful sight, twice seen of us ; 
Therefore I have entreated him, along 
With us to watch the minutes of this night ; 
That, if again this apparition come, 
He may approve our eyes, and speak to it. 

Hor. Tush ! tush ! 't will not appear. 

Ber. Sit down awhile, 

And let us once again assail your ears, 
40 



474 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

% 

That are so fortified against our story, 
What we, two nights, have seen. 

Hor. Well, sit we down, 

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 

Ber. Last night of all,. 
When yon same star that 's westward from the pole, 
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven, 
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, 
The bell then -beating one, — 

Mar. Peace, break thee off ; look, where it comes again ! 

{Enter Ghost.) 

Ber. In the same figure like the king that 's de'ad. 

Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Horatio. 

Ber. Looks it not like the king ? mark it, Horatio. 

Hor. Most like : — it harrows me with fear and wonder. 

Ber. It would be spoke to. 

Mar. Speak to it, Horatio. 

Mot. What art thou that usurp 'st this time of night, 
Together with that fair and war-like form 
In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
Did sometimes march ? by heaven I charge thee, speak. 

Mar. It is offended. 

Ber. See ! it stalks away. 

Hor. Stay ; speak : speak, I charge thee, speak. 

(Exit Ghost.) 

Mar. 'T is gone, and will not answer. 

Ber. How now, Horatio ? you tremble, and look pale : 
Is not this something more than fantasy ? 
What think you of it ? 

Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe, 
Without the sensible and true avouch 
Of mine own eyes. 

Mar. Is it not like the king ? 

Hor. As thou art to thyself : 
Such was the very armor he had on, 
When he the ambitious Norway combated ; 
So frowned he once, when, in an angry parle 
He smote the sledded Polack on the ice. 
'T is strange. 

Mar. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, 
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 

Hor. In what particular thought to work I know not ; 
But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion, 
This bodes some strange eruption to our state. 

Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, 



DIALOGUES •**- SERIOUS AND COMIC. 475 

Why this same strict and most observant watch 
So nightly toils the subject of the land ; 
And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, 
And foreign mart for implements of war ; 
Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task 
Does not divide the Sunday from the week : 
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste 
Doth make the night joint-laborer with the day ; 
Who is 't that can inform me ? 

Hor. That can I ; 

At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, 
Whose image even bux now appeared to us, 
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, 
Thereto pricked on by a most emulate pride, 
Dared to the combat ; in which our valiant Hamlet 
( For so this side of our known world esteemed him. ) 
Did slay this Fortinbras ; who, by a sealed compact, 
Well ratified by law and heraldry, 
Did forfeit with his life all those his lands, 
Which he stood seized of, to the conqueror ; 
Against the which, a moiety competent 
Was gaged by our king ; which had returned 
To the inheritance of Fortinbras. 
Had he been vanquisher ; as by the same co-mart 
And carriage of the article designed, 
His fell to Hamlet : Now, sir, young Fortinbras 
Of unimproved mettle hot and full, 
Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, 
Sharked up a list of landless resolutes, 
For food and diet, to some enterprise 
That hath a stomach in 't : which is no other 
( As it doth well appear unto our state, ) 
But to recover of us, by strong hand 
And terms compulsatory, those 'foresaid lands 
So by his father lost : and this, I take it, 
Is the main motive of our preparations, 
The source of this our watch, and the chief head 
Of this post haste and romage in the land. 

Ber. I think it be no other, but even so : 
Well may it sort, that this portentous figure 
Comes armed through our watch ; so like the king 
That was, and is, the question of these wars. 

Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye, 
In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 



476 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead 

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets. 

********** 

As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 
Disasters in the sun ; and the moist star, 
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, 
Was sick almost to dooms-day with eclipse, 
And even the like precurse of fierce events, — 
As harbingers preceding still the fates, 
And prologue to the omen coming on, 
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated 
Unto our climatures and countrymen. — 
[Re- enter Ghost.) 
But soft ; behold ! lo, where it comes again ! 
I '11 cross it, though it blast me. — Stay, illusion ! 
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 
Speak to me : 

If there be any good thing to be done, 
That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, 
Speak to me : 

If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 
Which, happily, foreknowing, may avoid, 
0, speak ! 

Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 
For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, 

( Cock crows.) 
Speak of it : — stay, and speak. — Stop it, Marcellus. 

Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan ? 

Hot. Do, if it will not stand. 

Ber. 'T is here ! 

Hot. 'T is here. 

MaT. 'T is gone! (Exit G-Iiost.) 

We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the show of violence ; 
For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 
And our vain blows malicious mockery. 

Ber. It was about to speak when the cock crew. 

Hot. And then it started, like a guilty thing 
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 
The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn, 
Doth with his lofty and shrill sounding throat 
Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning, 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 
The extravagant and erring spirit hies 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 477 

To his confine : and of the truth herein 
This present object made probation. 

Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time. 

Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. 
But, look ! the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill : 
Break we our watch up : and, by my advice, 
Let us impart what we have seen to-night 
Unto young Hamlet : for, upon my life, 
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him : 
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, 
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ? 

Mar. Let 's do % I pray ; and I this morning know 
Where we shall find him most convenient. shakspeare, 



THE UNQUIET SPIRIT, 

HORATIO MARCELLUS — BERNARDO. 



Hot. Hail to your lordship ! 

Ham. I am glad to see you well, 

Horatio, — or I do forget myself. 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. 

Ham. Sir, my good friend ; I '11 change that name with you. 
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ? — 
Marcellus ? 

Mar. My good lord, 

Ham. I am very glad to see you ; good even, sir. — 
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg ? 

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so, 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself : I know, you are no truant. 
But what is your affair in Elsinore ? 



478 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

We '11 teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow student, 
I think, it was to see my mother's wedding. 

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. 

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral baked meats 
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven 
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio ! — 
My father, — Methinks, I see my father. 

Hor. Where, 

My lord ? 

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 

Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly king. 

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 

Ham. Saw ! who ? 

Hor. My lord, the king your father. 

Ham. The king my father ! 

Hor. Season your admiration for a while 
With an attent ear ; till I may deliver, 
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
This marvel to you. 

Ham. For God's love, let me hear. 

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, 
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 
In the dead waist and middle of the night, 
Been thus encountered. A figure like your father, 
Armed at point, exactly, cap-a-pie, 
Appears before them, and, with solemn march, 
Goes slow and stately by them : thrice he walked, 
By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distilled 
Almost to jelly with the act of fear, 
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me 
In dreadful secrecy impart they did ; 
And I with them, the third night kept the watch : 
Where, as they had delivered, both in time, 
Form of the thing, each word made true and good. 
The apparition comes : I knew your father ; 
These hands are not more like. 

Ham. But where was this ? 

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 479 

Hor. My lord, I did ; 

But answer made it none : yet once, methought 
It lifted up its head, and did address 
Itself to motion, like as it would speak : 
But, even then, the morning cock crew loud ; 
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
And vanished from our sight. 

Ham. 'T is very strange. 

Hor. As I do live, my honored lord, 't is true ; 
And we did think it writ down in our duty, 
To let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. 
Hold you the watch to-night ? 

All. We do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you ? 

All. Armed, my lord. 

Ham. From top to toe ? 

All. My lord, from head to foot. 

Ham. Then saw you not 

His face. 

Hor. 0, yes, my lord ; he wore his beaver up. 

Ham. What, looked he frowningly ? 

Hor. A countenance more 

In sorrow than in anger. 

Ham. Pale, or red ? 

Hor. Nay, very pale. 

Ham. And fixed his eyes upon you ? 

Hor. Most constantly. 

Ham. I would, I had been there. 

Hor. It would have much amazed you. 

Ham. Veiy like, 

Very like : Stayed it long ? 

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. 

Mar. Ber. Longer, longer. 

Hor. Not when I saw it. 

Ham. His beard was grizzled ? no ? 

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silvered. 

Ham. I will watch to-night ; 

Perchance, 't will walk again. 

Hor. I warrant, it will. 

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, 
I '11 speak to it, though hell itself should gape, 
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, 
If you have hitherto concealed this sight, 



480 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Let it be tenable in your silence still ; 

And whatever else shall hap to-night, 

Give it an understanding, but no tongue ; 

I will requite your loves : So far, fare you well. 

Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, 

I '11 visit you. 

All. Our duty to your honor. 

Ham. Your loves, as mine to you : Farewell. 

(Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.) 
My father's spirit in arms ! all is not well : 
I doubt some foul play : 'would, the night were come ! 
Till then sit still, my soul : Foul deeds will rise, 
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



HAMLET'S INTERVIEW WITH HIS FATHER'S SPIRIT. 

HAMLET HORATIO MARCELLUS GHOST. 

Ham. The air bites shrewdly ; it is very cold. 

Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air. 

Ham. What hour now ? 

Hor. I think it lacks of twelve. 

Mar. No, it is struck. 

Hor. Indeed ? I heard it not ; it then draws near the season, 
Wherein the spirit held is wont to walk. 

( A Flourish of Trumpets, and Ordnance shot off, ivithin.) 
What does this mean, my lord ? 

Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse. 
Keeps wassel, and the swaggering up-spring reels ; 
And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, 
The kettle drum and trumpet thus bray out 
The triumph of his pledge. 

Hor. Is it a custom ? 

Ham. Ay, marry, is 't : 
But to my mind, — though I am native here, 
And to the manner born, — it is a custom 
More honored in the breach, than the observance. 
This heavy-headed revel, east and west, 
Makes us traduced, and taxed of other nations : 
They clepe us, drunkards, and with swinish phrase 
Soil our addition ; and, indeed it takes 
From our achievements, though performed at height, 
The pith and marrow of our attribute. 



DIALOGUES. SERIOUS AND COMIC. 481 

So, oft it chances in particular men, 

That, for some vicious mole of nature in them, 

As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty, 

Since nature cannot choose his origin,) 

Ly the o'ergrowth of some complexion 

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 

Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens 

The form of plausive manners ; — that these men, — 

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect ; 

Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, — 

Their virtues else (be they as pure as grace, 

As infinite as man may undergo, ) 

Shall in the general censure take corruption 

From that particular fault : — the dram of base 

Doth all the noble substance often dout, 

To his own scandal. (Bnter Ghost.) 

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes ! 

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! — 
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, 
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, 
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, 
Thou comest in such a questionable shape, 
That I will speak to thee ; I '11 call thee, Hamlet, 
King, father, royal Dane ; 0, answer me : 
Let me not burst in ignorance ! but tell, 
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, 
Have burst their cerements ! why the sepulchre, 
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned, 
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws, 
To cast thee up again ! What may this mean, 
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 
Revisitest thus the glimpses of the moon, 
Making night hideous ; and we fools of nature, 
So horridly to shake our disposition, 
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ? 
Say, why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ? 

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, 
As if it some impartment did desire 
To you alone. 

Mar. Look, with what courteous action, 
It waves you to a more removed ground : 
But do not go with it. 

Hor. No, by no means. 

Ham. It will not speak ; then I will follow it. 

Hor. Do not, my lord. 
41 



482 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ham. Why, what should be the fear ? 

I do not set my life at a pin's fee ; 
And for my soul, what can it do to that, 
Being' a thing immortal as itself? 
It waves me forth again ; — I '11 follow it. 

Hor. What, if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, 
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, 
That beetles o'er his base into the sea ? 
And there assume some other horrible form, 
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, 
And draw you into madness ? think of it : 
The very place puts toys of desperation, 
Without more motive, into every brain, 
That looks so many fathoms to the sea, 
And hears it roar beneath. 

Ham. It waves me still : — 

Go on, I '11 follow thee. 

Mar. You shall not go, my lord. 

Ham. Hold off your hands. 

Hot. Be ruled, you shall not go. 

Ham. My fate cries out 

And makes each petty artery in this body 

As hardy as the NTemean lion's nerve. — ( Ohost beckons.) 

Still am I called ; — unhand me, gentlemen ; — 

( Breaking from th em. ) 
By heaven, I '11 make a ghost of him that lets me : 
I say, away : — Go on, I '11 follow thee. 

(Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.) 

Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination. 

Mar. Let's follow ; 't is not fit thus to obey him. 

Hor. Have after : — To what issue will this come ? 

Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. 

Hor. Heaven will direct it. 

Mar. Nay, let 's follow him. shakspeare. 



THE INDIGNATION OF HAMLET. 

HAMLET POLONIUS ROSENCRANTZ GUILDENSTERN. 

Ouil. Good, my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. 
Ham. Sir, a whole history. 
Quit. The king, sir, — 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 483 

Ham. Ay, sir, what of him ? 

Ouil. Is, in his retirement, marvelous distempered. 

Ham. With drink, sir ? 

Ouil. No, my lord, with choler. 

Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more richer, to signify 
this to the doctor ; for, for me to put him to his purgation, 
would, perhaps, plunge him into more choler. 

Ouil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and 
start not so wildly from my affair. 

Ham. I am tame, sir: — pronounce. 

Ouil. The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of 
spirit, hath sent me to you. 

Ham. You are welcome. 

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right 
breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, 
I will do your mother's commandment ; if not, your pardon, and 
my return, shall be the end of my business. 

Ham. Sir, I cannot. 

Ouil. What, my lord ? 

Ham. Make you a wholesome answer ; my wit's diseased : 
But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command ; or, 
rather, as you say, my mother : therefore no more, but to the 
matter ; My mother, you say, 

Bos, Then thus she says ; Your behavior hath struck her 
into amazement and admiration. 

Ham. wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother ! — 
But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's ac miration ? 
impart. 

Bos. She desires to speak with you in her closet, ere you go 
to bed. 

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have 
you any further trade with us ? 

Bos. My lord, you once did love me. 

Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers. 

Bos. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper ? you 
do, surely, but bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny 
your griefs to your friend. 

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. 

Bos. How can that be, when you have the voice of the king 
himself for your succession in Denmark ? 

Ham. Ay, sir, but, While the grass grows, — the proverb 
is something musty. {Enter the Players, with Becorders.) 
0, the recorders : — let me see one. To withdraw with you : — 
Why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you 
would drive me into a toil ? 



484 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Guil. my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too 
unmannerly. 

Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this 
pipe ? 

Guil. My lord, I cannot. 

Ham. I pray you. 

Guil. Believe me, I cannot. 

Ham. I do beseech you. 

Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Ham. 'T is as easy as lying : govern these ventages with 
your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it 
will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops. 

Guil. But these cannot I command to any utterance of har- 
mony ; I have not the skill. 

Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make 
of me ! You would play upon me ; you would seem to know 
my stops ; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you 
would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass : 
and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ ; 
yet cannot you make it speak. 'S blood, do you think, I am 
easier to be played on than a pipe ? Call me what instrument 
you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. 
God bless you, sir ! [Enter Polonius.) 

Pol. My lord, the queen would speak with you presently. 

Ham. Do you see yonder cloud, that 's almost in the shape of 
a camel ? 

Pol. By the mass, and 't is like a camel, indeed. 

Ham. Methinks, it is like a weasel. 

Pol. It is backed like a weasel. 

Ham. Or, like a whale ? 

Pol. Very like a whale. 

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by-and-by. — They 
fool me to the top of my bent. — I will come by-and-by. 

Pol. I will say so. {Exit Polonius.) 

Ham. By-and-by is easliy said. — Leave me, friends. 

{Exeunt Bos., Guil., Hor., dc.) 
'T is now the very witching time of night, 
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out 
Contagion to this world : now could I drink hot blood, 
And do such business as the bitter day 
Would quake to look on. Soft ; now to my mother. — 
O, heart, lose not thy nature ; let not ever 
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom : 
Let me be cruel, not unnatural : 
I will speak daggers to her, but use none. shakspeare. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 485 

THE BURIAL OF OPHELIA. 

TWO CLOWNS. 

1 Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, that wilfully 
seeks her own salvation ? 

2 Clo. I tell thee, she is : therefore make her grave straight : 
the crowner hath set on her, and finds it Christian burial. 

1 Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her 
own defense ? 

2 Clo. Why, 't is found so. 

1 Clo. It must be se offendendo ; it cannot be else. For here 
lies the point : if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act : 
and an act hath three branches ; it is, to act, to do, and to per- 
form : Argal, she drowned herself wittingly. 

2 Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver. 

1 Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water ; good : here 
stands the man ; good : if the man go to this water, and drown 
himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes ; mark you that : but if 
the water come to him, and drown him, he drowns not himself : 
Argal, he, that is not guilty of his own death, shortens not his 
own life. 

2 Clo. But is this law? 

1 Clo. Ay, marry is 't ; crowner' s quest law. 

2 Clo. Will you ha' the truth on 't ? If this had not been a 
gentlewoman, she should have been buried out of Christian 
burial. 

1 Clo. Why, there thou say'st : and the more pity, that 
great folks shall have countenance in this world to drown or 
hang themselves, more than their even Christian. Come, my 
spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, 
and grave makers ; they hold up Adam's profession. 

2 Clo. Was he a gentleman ? 

1 Clo. He was the first that ever bore arms. 

2 Clo. Why, he had none. 

1 Clo. What, art a heathen ? How dost thou understand 
the Scripture ? The Scripture says, "Adam digged; " could he 
dig without arms ? I '11 put another question to thee : if thou 
answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself — 

2 Clo. Go to. 

1 Clo. What is he, that builds stronger than either the mason, 
the shipwright, or the carpenter ? 

2 Clo. The gallows maker ; for that frame outlives a thousand 
tenants. 



486 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith ; the gallows does 
well ; but how does it well ? it does well to those that do ill : 
now thou dost ill, to say the gallows is built stronger than the 
church ; Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To 't again : 
come. 

2 Clo. "Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a 
carpenter ? 

1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 

2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 

1 Clo. To't. 

2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 

1 Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it ; for your dull ass 
will not mend his pace with beating ; and when you are asked 
this question next, say, a grave maker ; the houses that he 
makes, last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch 
me a stoup of liquor. shakspeare. 



THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 



Cas. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this ; 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted of. 

Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offense should bear its comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember ! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 487 

And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man in all this world, 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? — 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me ; 
I '11 not endure it. You forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself, 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you 're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is 't possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
"When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me — every way you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said, an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace : you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ! 



488 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; — 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : — he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived my heart* 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is a-weary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note book, learned and conned by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 489 

If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 

Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, 

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better 

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheathe your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so % much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. Brutus ! — 

Bru. What 's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRETAGNE. 

PRINCE ARTHUR HUBERT ATTENDANTS. 

Huh. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand 
Within the arras ; when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, 
Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch. 

1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. 

Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you ; look to it. — 

[Exeunt Attendants.) 
Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. {Enter Arthur.) 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 



490 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince) as may be ; — You are sad. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me ! 
Methinks nobody should be sad but I : 
Yet I remember, when I was in France, 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
So I were out of prison, and- kept sheep, 
I should be merry as the day is long ; 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practices more harm to me : 
He is afraid of me, and I of him : 
Is it my fault that I were Geoffrey's son ? 
No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to heaven, 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. , 

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. (Aside.) 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? You look pale to day. 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick ; 
That I might sit all night, and watch with you. 
I warrant I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. — 
Read here, young Arthur. (Showing a paper.) How now, fool- 
ish rheum ! (Aside.) 
Turning dispiteous torture out the door ! 
I must be brief, lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. — 
Oan you not read it ? Is it not fair writ ? 

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : 
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you ? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache 
I knit my handkerchief about your brows, 
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) 
And I did never ask it you again : 
And with my hand at midnight held your head, 
And like the watchful minutes to the hour, 
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time ; 
Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief ? 
Or, What good love may I perform for you ? 
Many a poor man's son would have lain still, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS A#D COMIC. 491 

And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you : 

But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, 

And call it cunning : do, an if you will : 

If heaven be pleased that you should use me ill, 

Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes ? 

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 

So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it ; 
And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arih. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it : 
The iron of itself, .though heat red-hot, 
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, 
And qinench its fiery indignation, 
Even in the matter of mine innocence : 
Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 
But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ! 
An if an angel should have come to me, 
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believed no tongue but Hubert's. 

Hub. Come forth. (Stamps.) 

Do as I bid you. (Reenter Attendants, with cord, irons, <&c.) 

Arih. 0, save me, Hubert, save me ! My eyes are out, 
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arih. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous-rough : 
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! 
Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
Nor look upon the irons angrily ; 
Thrust but these men away, and I '11 forgive you, 
Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go stand within ; let me alone with him. 

1 Att. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. (Ex. Att's.) 

Arih. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend : 
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart : — 
Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arih. Is there no remedy ? 
- Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Arth. heaven ! that there were but a mote in yours, 



492 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 

Hub. Is this your promise ? Go to, hold your tongue. 

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : 
Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert ! 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 
So I may keep mine eyes ; 0, spare mine eyes, 
Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 
And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief — 
Being create for comfort — to be used 
In undeserved extremes : See else yourself : 
There is no malice in this burning coa! ; 
The breath of heaven hath blown its spirit out, 
And strewed repentant ashes on his head. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush 
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert ; 
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes, 
And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight, 
Snatch at his master that does tarre him on. 
All things, that you should use to do me wrong, 
Deny their office ; only you do lack 
That mercy, which fierce fire and iron extends, — 
Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses. 

Hub. Well, see to five ; I will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns ; 
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 
With this same very iron to burn them out. 

Arth. Oh, now you look like Hubert ! all this while 
You were disguised. 

Hub. Peace : no more : Adieu ! — 
Your uncle must not know but you are dead : 
I '11 fill these dogged spies with false reports. 
And pretty child, sleep dauntless, and secure 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the Avorld, 
Will not offend thee. 

Arth. heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence : no more. Go closely in with me : * 

Much danger do I undergo for thee. shakspeare. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 493 

FALSTAFF'S VALOR. 

PRINCE HENRY — FALSTAFF. 

P. Henry. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been ? 

Falstaff. A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance 
too ! marry, and amen : — (To an Attendant. ) Give me a cup 
of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this life long, I '11 sew netherstocks, 
and mend them, and foot them too. A plague on all cowards : — 
Give me a cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant? 
(Drains the cup.) You rogue, here 's lime in this sack, too. 
There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man ! 
Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it ; a 
villainous coward. — Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou 
wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of 
the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three 
good men unhanged in England ; and one of them is fat, and 
grows old, — a bad world, I say ! A plague on all cowards, I 
say still ! 

P. Henry. How now, wool-sack ? what mutter you ? 

Pal. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy king- 
dom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee 
like a flock of wild geese, I '11 never wear hair on my face more. 
You — Prince of Wales ! 

P. Henry. Why, what 's the matter 1 

Pal. Are you not a coward ? answer me that. 

P. Henry.- Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I '11 stab 
thee. 

Pal. I call thee coward ? I '11 see thee hanged ere I call thee 
coward : but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as 
fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, 
you care not who sees your back. Call you that, backing of 
your friends ? A plague upon such backing ! give me them 
that will face me. — Give me a cup of sack : — I am a rogue, if 
I have drunk to-day. 

P. Henry. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou 
drunk' st last. 

Pal. All 's one for that. (He drinks.) A plague on all 
cowards, still say I ! 

P. Henry. What 's the matter ? 

Pal. What 's the matter ? here be four of us have taken a 
thousand pound this morning. 

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? 

Pal. Where is it ? taken from us, it is : a hundred upon poor 
four of us. 



494 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

P. Henry. What, a hundred, man ? 

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen 
of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am 
eight times thrust through the doublet ; four through the hose ; 
my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hacked like a 
handsaw, ecce signum. (Shows his sword.) I never dealt bet- 
ter since I was a man : all would not do. A plague on all 
cowards ! — 

P. Henry. What, fought you with them all ? 

Fal. All ? I know not what you call all ; but, if I fought not 
with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish : if there were not 
two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two- 
legged creature. 

P. Henry. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some of 
them. 

Fal. Nay, that 's past praying for. I have peppered two 
of them : two I am sure, I have paid ; two rogues in buckram 
suits. I tell thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my 
face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward. (Taking a 
position for fighting.) — Here I lay, and thus I bore my point. 
Four rogues in buckram let drive at me — 

P. Henry. What, four ? thou saidst but two, even now. 

Fal. Four, Hal ! I told thee four. — These four came all 
a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but 
took all their seven points in my target, thus. 

P. Henry. Seven ! why, there were but four, even now. 

Fal. In buckram ? 

P. Henry. Aye, four in buckram suits. 

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Dost thou 
hear me, Hal ? 

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 

Fal. Do so, for it is worth listening to. — These nine in buck- 
ram that I told thee of — 

P. Henry. So, two more already. 

Fal. Their points being broken, — began to give me ground ; 
but I followed me close, came in foot and hand, and with a 
thought, seven of the eleven I paid. 

P. Henry. Oh, monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out 
of two ! 

Fal. But, as ill luck would have it, three misbegotten knaves, 
in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me ; — for 
it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. 

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them ; 
gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou knotty-pated 
fool ; thou greasy tallow-tub. 



DIALOGUES — ■ SERIOUS AND COMIC. 495 

Fal. What, art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth 
the truth ? 

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal 
green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand ? 
Come, tell us your reason ; what sayest thou to this ? Come, 
your reason, Jack, your reason. 

Fal. What, upon compulsion ? — No. Were I at the strap- 
pado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on 
compulsion. Give you a reason upon compulsion ! If reasons 
were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason 
upon compulsion. 

P. Henry. I '11 be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine 
coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back breaker, this huge hill 
of flesh — 

Fal. Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's 
tongue, you stock-fish ! for breath to utter what is like 
thee ! you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile 
standing tuck, — 

P. Henry. Well, breathe awhile and then to it again ; and 
when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak 
but this. — Poins and I saw you four set on four ; you bound 
them, and were masters of their wealth : mark now, how plain a 
tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four, and 
with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it, yea 
can show it you, here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried 
your paunch away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared 
for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard a bull-calf. 
What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, 
and then say it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what 
starting hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this 
open and apparent shame ? 

Fal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — D' ye think I did not know you, Hal ? 
Why, hear ye, my master, was it for me to kill the heir appa- 
rent ? should I turn upon the true prince ? why, thou knowest 
I am as valiant as Hercules. But beware instinct ; the lion will 
not touch the true prince ; instinct is a great matter. I was a 
coward on instinct, I grant you ; and I shall think the better of 
myself and thee during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou 
for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us 
clap to the doors ; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. What ! 
shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore ? 

P. Henry. Content ! — and the argument shall be, thy run- 
ning away. 

Fal. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



496 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

THE MISER. 

LOVEGOLD JAMES. 

Love. Where have you been ? I have wanted you above an 
hour. 

James. Whom do you want, sir, — your coachman or your 
cook ? for I am both one and t' other. 

Love. I want my cook. 

James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman ; for you 
have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses 
were starved ; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an 
instant. [Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a 
cook.) Now, sir, I am ready for your commands. 

Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper. 

James. A supper, sir ! I have not heard the word this half 
year ; a dinner, indeed, now and then ; but for a supper I 'm 
almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out. 

Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide 
a good supper. 

James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. 

Love. Is the mischief in you ? Always money ! Can you 
say nothing else but money, money, money ? My children, my 
servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money. 

James. Well, sir ; but how many will there be at table ? 

Love. About eight or ten ; but I will have a supper dressed 
but for eight ; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough 
for ten. 

James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup ; at the 
other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens ; on one side, a fillet 
of veal ; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may 
be had for about a guinea — 

Love. Zounds ! is the fellow providing an entertainment for 
my lord mayor and the court of aldermen ? 

James. Then a ragout — 

Love. I '11 have no ragout. Would you burst the good people, 
you dog ? 

James. Then pray, sir, say what will you have ? 

Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stom- 
achs : let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre ; a large 
suet-pudding ; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat ; a fine, small 
lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. 
There ; that 's plenty and variety. 

James. O, dear — 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 497 

Love. Plenty and variety. 

James. But, sir, you must have some poultry. 

Love. No ; I '11 have none. 

James. Indeed, sir, you should. 

Love. Well, then, — kill the old hen, for she has done laying. 

James. Mercy ! sir, how the folks will talk of it ; indeed, peo- 
ple say enough of you already. 

Love. Eh ! why, what do the people say, pray ? 

James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. 

Love. Not at all ; for I 'm always glad to hear what the world 
says of me. 

James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a 
jest of you everywhere ; nay, of your servants, on your account. 
One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to 
find an excuse to pay them no wages. 

Love. Poh ! poh ! 

James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your 
own oats from your own horses. 

Love. That must be a lie ; for I never allow them any. 

James. In a word, you are the by-word everywhere ; and 
you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy, 
scraping, old — 

Lave. Get along, you impudent villain ! 

James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry. 

Love. Get out, you dog ! you — fielding. 



THE TWO ROBBERS. 



[Alexander tJie Great, in his tent. A man with a fierce countenance, 
chained and fettered, brought before him.~\ 

Alex. What ! art thou the Thracian robber, of whose 
exploits I have heard so much ? 

Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. 

Alex. A soldier! — a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the 
pest of the country ! I could honor thy courage ; but I must 
detest and punish thy crimes. 

Rob. What have I done of which you can complain ? 

Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority ; violated 
the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and 
properties of thy fellow-subjects ? 

Rob. Alexander, I am your captive — I must hear what you 
please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my 
42 



498 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

soul is unconquered ; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I 
will reply like a free man. 

Alex. Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage 
of my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse ! 

Hob. I must, then, answer your question by another. How 
have you passed your life ? 

Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you. Among 
the brave, I have been the bravest ; among sovereigns, the 
noblest ; among conquerors, the mightiest. 

Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too ? Was there ever 
a bolder captain of a more valiant band ? Was there ever — 
but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been 
easily subdued. 

Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber — a base, dishonest 
robber ? 

Hob. And what is a conqueror ? Have not you, too, gone 
about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of 
peace and industry ; plundering, ravaging, killing without law, 
without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion ? 
All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred follow- 
ers, you have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand. 
If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and 
princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated 
the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is 
then the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a 
private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber 
than I ? 

Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a 
king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I 
have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy. 

Bob. I, too, have freely given to the poor, what I took from 
the rich. I have established order and discipline among the 
most ferocious of mankind ; and have stretched out my protect- 
ing arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the phi- 
losophy you talk of ; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever 
atone to the world for the mischief we have done it. 

Alex. Leave me. — Take off his chains ; and use him well. 
Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber? — Let 
me reflect. dr. aiken. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 499 

THE CONSTABLE DE BOURBON. 

BOURBON GONZALES. 

Bour. How now ? 
A priest ! what means this most unwelcome visit ? 

Gon. Who questions thus a son of the holy church ? 
Look on these walls, whose stern, time-stained brows, 
Frown like relentless justice on their inmates ! 
Listen ! — that voice is echo's dull reply 
Unto the rattling of your chains, my lord : — 
What should a priest do here ? 

Bour. Ay, what, indeed ! — 
Unless you come to soften down these stones 
With your discourse, and teach the tedious echo 
A newer lesson : trust me, that is all 
Your presence, father, will accomplish here. 

Gon. Oh ! sinful man ! and is thy heart so hard, 
That I might easier move thy prison stones ! 
Know, then, my mission — death is near at hand ! 

Bour. Go to ! go to ! I have fought battles, father, 
Where death and I have met in full close contact, 
And parted, knowing we should meet again ; 
Go prate to others about skulls and graves ; 
Thou never didst in heat of combat stand, 
Or know what good acquaintance soldiers have 
With the pale scarecrow — death ! 

Gon. (Aside.) Ah! thinkest thou so ? 
Hear me, thou hard of heart ! 
They who go forth to battles, are led on 
With sprightly trumpets and shrill clamorous clarions ; 
The drum doth roll its double notes along, 
Echoing the horses' tramp ; and the sweet fife 
Runs through the yielding air in dulcet measure, 
That makes the heart leap in its case of steel ! 
Thou shalt be knelled unto thy death by bells, 
Ponderous and iron-tongued, whose sullen toll 
Shall cleave thy aching brain, and on thy soul 
Fall with a leaden weight : the muffled drum 
Shall mutter round thy path like distant thunder ; 
Instead of the war-cry, the wild battle-roar, — 
That swells upon the tide of victory, 
And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear, 
Triumphant harmony of glorious discords, 
There shall be voices cry foul shame on thee ! 



500 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And the infuriate populace shall clamor 

To heaven for lightnings on thy rebel head ! 

Bout. Monks love not bells, which call them up to prayers 
In the dead noon of night, when they would snore, 
Bather than watch : but, father, I care not, 
E'en if the ugliest sound I e'er did hear — 
Thy raven voice — croak curses o'er my grave. 

Gon. What ! death and shame ! alike you heed them not ! 
Then, mercy ! use thy soft, persuasive arts, 
And melt this stubborn spirit ! Be it known 
To you, my lord, the queen hath sent me hither. 

Bout. Then get thee hence again, foul, pandering priest ! 
By heaven ! I knew that cowl did cover o'er 
Some filthy secret, that the day dared not 
To pry into — out, thou unholy thing ! 

Gon. Hold, madman ! 
If for thy fame, if for thy warm heart's blood 
Thou wilt not hear me, listen in the name of France, thy country! 

Bour. I have no country, — 
I am a traitor, cast from out the arms 
Of my ungrateful country ! I disown it ! 
Withered be all its glories, and its pride ! 
May it become the slave of foreign power ! 
May foreign princes grind its thankless children, 
And make all those who are such fools, as yet 
To spill their blood for it, or for its cause, 
Dig it like dogs ! and when they die, like dogs, 
Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil, 
Whose produce shall be seized by foreign hands ! 

Gon. You beat the air with idle words ; no man 
Doth know how deep his country's love lies grained 
In his heart's core, until the hour of trial ! 
Fierce though you hurl your curse upon the land, 
Whose monarchs cast ye from its bosom, yet 
Let but one blast of war come echoing 
From where the Ebro and the Duero roll, — 
Let but the Pyrenees reflect the gleam 
Of twenty of Spain's lances, — and your sword 
Shall leap from out its scabbard to your hand ! 

Bour. Ay, priest, it shall ! eternal heaven, it shall ! 
And its far flash shall lighten o'er the land, 
The leading star of Spain's victorious host, 
But naming like some dire portentous comet, 
In the eyes of France, and her proud governors ! 
Be merciful, my fate, nor cut me off 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 501 

Ere I have wreaked my fell desire, and made 
Infamy glorious, and dishonor fame ! 
But, if my wayward destiny hath willed 
That I should here be butchered shamefully, 
By the immortal soul that is man's portion, 
His hope and his inheritance, I swear, 
That on the day that Spain o'erflows its bounds, 
And rolls the tide of war upon these plains, 
My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride ; 
And louder than death's music and the roar 
Of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout, 
On — on — to victory and carnage ! 

Gon. Now 
That day is come, ay, and that very hour ; 
Now shout your war-cry, now unsheath your sword ! 
I '11 join the din, and make these tottering walls 
Tremble and nod to hear our fierce defiance ! 
Nay, never start, and look upon my cowl. — 
Off ! vile denial of my manhood's pride ! — 
Nay, stand not gazing thus : it is Garcia, 
Whom thou hast met in deadly fight full oft, 
When France and Spain joined in the battle-field ! 
Beyond the Pyrenean boundary 
That guards thy land are forty thousand men — 
Impatient halt they there ; their foaming steeds 
Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier, 
That bars their further course : they wait for thee : 
For thee whom France hath injured and cast off : 
For thee, whose blood it pays with shameful chains, 
More shameful death ; for thee, whom Charles of Spain 
Summons to head his host, and lead them on 
To conquest and to glory ! 

JBour. To revenge ! 
Why, how we dream ! why look, Garcia ; canst thou 
With mumbled priestcraft file away these chains, 
Or must I bear them into Spain with me, 
That Charles may learn what guerdon valor wins 
This side the Pyrenees ? 

Gon. It shall not need — 
What ho ! but hold — together with this garb, 
Methinks I have thrown off my prudence ! 

(Resumes the monk's cowl.) 

Bour. What ! 
Wilt thou to Spain with me in frock and cowl, 
That men shall say De Bourbon is turned driveler, 



502 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And rides to war in company with monks ? 

Gon. Listen, the queen for her own purposes 
Confided to my hand her signet-ring, 
Bidding me strike your fetters off, and lead you 
By secret passes to her private chamber ; 
But being free, so use thy freedom, that 
Before the morning's dawn all search be fruitless. — 

[Enter Jailer.) 
What ho ! within. 
Behold this signet-ring ! 

Strike off those chains, and get thee gone. (Exit Jailer.) 

And now follow. — How 's this — dost doubt me, Bourbon ? 

JBour. Ay, 
First for thy habit's sake ; and next, because 
Thou rather, in a craven priest's disguise, 
Tarriest in danger in a foreign court, 
Than seekest that danger in thy country's wars. 

Gon. Thou art unarmed : there is my dagger ; 't is 
The only weapon that I bear, lest fate 
Should play me false ; take it, and use it, too, 
If in the dark and lonely path I lead thee, 
Thou markest me halt, or turn, or make a sign 
Of treachery ! — but first tell me, dost know 
John Count Laval ? 

Bour. What ! Lautrec's loving friend, 
Now bound for Italy, along with him ? 

Gon. Then the foul fiend hath mingled in my plot, 
And marred it too ! my fife's sole aim and purpose ! 
Didst thou but know what damned injuries, 
What foul unknightly shame and obloquy, 
His sire — whose name is wormwood to my mouth — 
Did heap upon our house — ■ didst thou but know — 
No matter — get thee gone — I tarry here ? 
And should we never meet again, when thou 
Shalt hear of the most fearful deed of daring, 
Of the most horrible and bloody tale, 
That ever graced a beldam's midnight legend, 
Or froze her gaping listners, think of me 
And my revenge ! now, Bourbon, heaven speed thee ! 

KEMBLE. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 503 



THE LOST MAIDEN. 



Mor. We are now in private. 

Len. I am glad we are. 

Mor. And now, sir, I insist on a clear and explicit answer. 
Where may I find Joanna ? 

Len. Nay, sir, where may I find Joanna ? 

Mor. Mr. Lenox, I will not be trifled with ; where is she ? 

Len. Nor will I be trifled with, Mr. Mordent : I say where 
is she ? The contrivance was your own. I know you. The 
moment you set your eyes on her, you began your treacherous 
plots to secure her affections ; and, when you found I would 
not resign mine at your persuasion, you put them in practice, 
while you treacherously pretended to secure her to me. I tell 
you, I know you. 

Mor. This will not serve, sir ; it is all evasion. 

Len. Ay, sir, it is evasion ! cunning, cruel, base evasion ! 
and I affirm she is in your possession. 

Mor. Mr. Lenox, I am at this moment a determined and 
desperate man, and must be answered. Where is she ? 

Len. Sir, I am as determined and desperate as yourself, and 
I say where is she ? For you alone can tell. 

Mor. 'T is false! 

Len. False? 

Mor. Ay, false ! 

Len. ( Going up to him. ) He is the falsest of the false that 
dares whisper such a word. 

Mor. Hark ye, sir ! I understand your meaning, and came 
purposely provided. (Draws a pair of pistols.) Take your 
choice ; they are loaded. 

Len. Oh ! with all my heart ! Come, sir ! 

Mor. (Approaching sternly.) Nigher ! 

Len. As nigh as you please. 

Mor. (Placing himself.) Foot to foot ! 

Len. (Both presenting.) Muzzle to muzzle ! 

Mor. Why don 't you fire ? 

Len. Why don 't you unlock your pistol ? 

Mor. (After unlocking it.) There ! 

Len. Why do you turn it out of the line ? (Pause.) I see 
your intention. Mordent, you are tired of life and want me to 
murder you. Hang it, man, that is not treating your friend like 
a friend. Kill me if you will, but don 't make me your assassin. 



504 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mor. Nay, kill me, or tell me where I may find the wretched 
Joanna. 

Len. Fiends seize me, if I can tell you ! I know not where, 
or what is become of her. 

Mor. Your behavior tells me you are sincere ; and to con- 
vince you at once that I am no less so, know — she is my 
daughter. 

Len. Your daughter ! — I '11 seek the world through with 
you to find her. Forgive me ! 

Mor. Would I could forgive myself ! 

Len. But it seems then, she has escaped, and is perhaps in 
safety. 

Mor. Oh ! that she were ! Let us retire. holcraft. 



THE HAKON JARL. 



(Hakon enters, leading Ms son Erling by the hand.) 

Erl. 'T is cold, my father ! 

Hah. 'T is yet early morning. Art thou so very chill ? 

Erl. Nay, 't is no matter. — 
I shall behold the rising sun — how grand ! 
A sight that I have never known before. 

Hak. Seest thou yon ruddy streaks along the east ? 

Erl. What roses ! how they bloom and spread on high ! 
Yet father, tell me whence come all these pearls, 
Wherewith the valley here is richly strewn ? 
How brightly they reflect the rosy light ! 

Hak. They are not pearls, it is the morning dew ! 
And that which thou deemest roses, is the sun ! 
Seest thou ? he rises now. Look at him, boy ! 

Erl. Oh ! what a beauteous whirling globe he seems : 
How fiery red ! Dear father, can we never 
Visit the sun in yonder distant land ? 

Hak. My child, our whole life thitherward is tending ; 
That flaming ball of fight is Odin's eye — 
His other is the moon, of milder light, 
That he just now has left in Mimer's well, 
There by the charmful waves to be refreshed. 

Erl. And where is Mimer's well ? 

Hak. The sacred ocean — 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC, 505 

That is old Mimer's deep and potent well. 

That strengthens Odin's eyes. From the cool waves, 

At morning duly comes the sun refreshed, 

The moon again by night. 

Erl. But now it hurts me — 
It mounts too high. 

Hak. Upon his golden throne, 
The almighty father mounts, soon to survey 
The whole wide earth. The central diamond 
In his meridian crown, our earthly sight 
May not contemplate. What man darest to meet 
The unveiled aspect of the king of day ? 

Erl. ( Terrified. ) Hu ! hu ! my father — in the forest 
What are those bearded, frightful men ? [yonder — 

Hak. Fear not — 
They are the statues of the gods, by men 
Thus hewn in marble. They blind not with sun-gleams. 
Before them we can pray with confidence, 
And look upon them with untroubled firmness. 
Come child — let us go nearer ! 

Erl. No, my father ! 
I am afraid — seest thou that old man there I 
Him with the beard ? I am afraid of him ! 

Hak. Child, it is Odin — wouldst thou fly from Odin ? 

Erl. No — no — I fear not the great king in heaven — 
He is so good and beautiful, and calls 
The flowers from earth's bosom, and himself shines 
Like a flower on high ; — but that pale sorcerer — 
He grins like an assassin ! 

Hak. Ha ! 

Erl. Father, 
At least let me bring my crown of flowers. 
I left it there on the hedge, when first 
Thou broughtest me hither to see the sun rise. 
Then let us go home ; 
Believe me that old man there means no good ! 

Hak. Go bring thy wreath, and quickly come again, 
A lamb for sacrifice is ever crowned. [Exit Erling.) 
Immortal powers ! 
Behold the faith of Hakon in this deed. (Re-enter Erling.) 

Erl. Here am I father, and here 's the crown. 

Hak. Yet 
Ere thou goest, my child, kneel down before 
Great Odin. Stretch thy hands both up to heaven, 
And say, " Almighty father ! hear little 
43 



506 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Erling — as thy child receive him to thy 
Paternal bosom." ( He kneels, stretching his arms out toward 
the sun, and says with childish innocence and simplicity ,) 

Erl. Oh ! Great Odin, hear 
Little Erling ! as thy child receive him 
To thy paternal bosom. (Hakon, who stands behind, draws his 

dagger, and intends to stab him, but it drops out of his hand ; 

Erling turns round quietly, takes it up, and says as he rises,) 
Here it is — 

Your dagger, father : 't is so bright and sharp ! 
When I grow taller I will have one too, 
Thee to defend against thy enemies. 

Hak. Ha ! what enchanter with such words assists 
To move thy father's heart ? 

Erl. How 's this, my father ? 
You are not angry, sure ! What have I done ? 

Hak. Come Erling ! follow me behind that statue ! 

Erl. Behind that frightful man ! Oh ! no. 

Hak. Yet listen ! 
There are red roses blooming there, not white — 
But red and purple roses — 't is a pleasure 
To see them shooting forth. Come then, my child ! 

Erl. Dear father, stay, — I am so much afraid — 
I do not love red roses. 

Hak. Come, I say. 
Hearest thou not Hemidal's cock ! He crows and crows. 
Now it is time. anonymous. 



THE SARACEN BROTHERS. 

SALADIN MALEK ADHEL ATTENDANT. 

Att. A stranger craves admittance to your highness. 

Sal. Whence comes he ? 

Att. That I know not — 
Enveloped in a vestment of strange form, 
His countenance is hidden, but his step, 
His lofty port, his voice in vain disguised, 
Proclaim — if that I dared pronounce it, — 

Sal. Whom? 

Att. Thy royal brother. 

Sal. Bring him instantly. (Exit Attendant.) 

Now with his specious, smooth, persuasive tongue, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 507 

Fraught with some wily subterfuge, he thinks 
To dissipate my anger — he shall die. 

[Enter Attendant, and Malelc Adhel.) 

Sal. Leave us together. (Exit Attendant.) (Aside.) I should 
Now summon all thy fortitude, my soul. [know that form. 

Nor, though thy blood cry for him, spare the guilty. 
(Aloud.) Well, stranger, speak ; but first unveil thyself, 
For Saladin must view the form that fronts him. 

Mai. Ad. Behold it, then ! 

Sal. I see a traitor's visage. 

Mai. Ad. A brother's. 

Sal. No — 
Saladin owns no kindred with a villain. 

Mai. Ad. Oh, patience, heaven ! Had any tongue but thine 
Uttered that word, it ne'er should speak another. 

Sal. And why not now ? Can this heart be more pierced 
By Malek Adhel's sword than by his deeds ? 
Oh, thou hast made a desert of this bosom ! 
For open candor, planted sly disguise ; 
For confidence, suspicion ; and the glow 
Of generous friendship, tenderness, and love, 
For ever banished. Whither can I turn, 
When he by blood, by gratitude, by faith, 
By every tie bound to support, forsakes me ? 
Who, who can stand, when Malek Adhel falls ? 
Henceforth I turn me from the sweets of love, 
The smiles of friendship — and this glorious world, 
In which all find some heart to rest upon, 
Shall be to Saladin a cheerless void — 
His brother has betrayed him ! 

Mai. Ad. Thou art softened ; 
I am thy brother, then ; but late thou saidst — 
My tongue can never utter the base title. 

Sal. Was it traitor ? True — 
Thou hast betrayed me in my fondest hopes. 
Villain ? 'T is just ; the title is appropriate. 
Dissembler ? 'T is not written in thy face ; 
No, nor imprinted on that specious brow, 
But on this breaking heart the name is stamped, 
For ever stamped, with that of Malek Adhel. 
Thinkest thou I 'm softened ? By Mohammed, these hands 
Should crush these aching eyeballs, ere a tear 
Fall from them at thy fate ! — Oh monster, monster ! 
The brute that tears the infant from its nurse 
Is excellent to thee, for in his form 



608 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The impulse of his nature may be read, — 
But thou, so beautiful, so proud, so noble, 
Oh, what a wretch art thou ! Oh ! can a term 
In all the various tongues of man be found 
To match thy infamy ? 

Mai. Ad. Go on, go on ; 
'T is but a little while to hear thee, Saladin, 
And, bursting at thy feet, this heart will prove 
Its penitence at least. 

Sal. That were an end 
Too noble for a traitor ; the bowstring is 
A more appropriate finish - — thou shalt die ! 

Mai. Ad. And death were welcome at another's mandate ! 
What, what have I to live for ? Be it so, 
If that in all thy armies can be found 
An executing hand. 

Sal. Oh, doubt it not ? 
They 're eager for the office. Perfidy, 
So black as thine, effaces from their minds 
All memory of thy former excellence. 

Mai. Ad. Defer not then their wishes. Saladin, 
If e'er this form was joyful to thy sight, 
This voice seemed grateful to thine ear, accede 
To my last prayer — Oh, lengthen not this scene, 
To which the agonies of death were pleasing — 
Let me die speedily. 

Sal. This very hour ! 
(Aside.) For ho ! the more I look upon that face, 
The more I hear the accents of that voice, 
The monarch softens, and the judge is lost 
In all the brother's weakness ; yet such guilt, 
Such vile ingratitude, it calls for vengeance, 
And vengeance it shall have ! What ho ! who waits there ? 
(Enter Attendant.) 

Att. Did your highness call ? 

Sal. Assemble quickly 
My forces in the court ! — tell them they come 
To view the death of yonder bosom-traitor : 
And bid them mark, that he who will not spare 
His brother when he errs, expects obedience, 
Silent obedience from his followers. (Exit Attendant.) 

Mai. Ad. Now, Saladin, 
The word is given — I have nothing more 
To fear from thee, my brother — I am not 
About to crave a miserable life — 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 509 

Without thy love, thy honor, thy esteem, 
Life were a burthen to me : think not, either, 
The justice of thy sentence I would question : 
But one request now trembles on my tongue, 
One wish still clinging round the heart, which soon 
Not even that shall torture — will it then, 
Thinkest thou, thy slumbers render quieter, 
Thy waking thoughts more pleasing, to reflect, 
That when thy voice had doomed a brother's death, 
The last request which e'er was his to utter, 
Thy harshness made him carry to the grave ? 

Sal. Speak, then ; but ask thyself if thou hast reason 
To look for much indulgence here. 

Mai. Ad. I have not ! 
Yet will I ask for it. We part for ever ; 
This is our last farewell ; the king is satisfied ; 
The judge has spoken the irrevocable sentence : 
None sees, none hears, save that omniscent power, 
Which, trust me, will not frown to look upon 
Two brothers part like such. When in the face 
Of forces once my own, I 'm led to death, 
Then be thine eye unmoistened ; let thy voice 
Then speak my doom untrembling ; then, 
Unmoved behold this stiff and blackened corse. 
But now I ask — nay, turn not, Saladin i — 
I ask one single pressure of thy hand, 
From that stern eye one solitary tear — 
Oh, torturing recollection ! one kind word 

From the loved tongue which once breathed naught but kindness. 
Still silent ? Brother ! — friend — beloved companion 
Of all my youthful sports — are they forgotten ? 
Strike me with deafness, make me blind, Oh heaven ! 
Let me not see this unforgiving man 
Smile at my agonies — nor hear that voice 
Pronounce my doom, which would not say one word, 
One little word, which cherished memory 
Would sooth the struggles of departing life — 
Yet, yet thou wilt — Oh, turn thee Saladin ! 
Look on my face, thou canst not spurn me then ; 
Look on the once-loved face of Malek Adhel 
For the last time, and call him — 

Sal. (Seizing his hand.) Brother ! brother ! 

Mai. Ad. (.Breaking away.) Now call thy followers. 
Death has not now 
A single pang in store. Proceed ! I 'm ready. 



510 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Sal. Oh, art thou ready to forgive, my brother, — 
To pardon him who found one single error, 
One little failing 'mid a splendid throng 
Of glorious qualities — 

Mai. Ad. Oh stay thee, Saladin ! 
I did not ask for life — I only wished 
To carry thy forgiveness to the grave. 
No, emperor, the loss of Cesarea 
Cries loudly for the blood of Malek Adhel. 
Thy soldiers, too, demand that he who lost 
What cost them many a weary hour to gain, 
Should expiate his offenses with his life. 
Lo, even now they crowd to view my death, 
Thy just impartiality. — I go — 
Pleased by my fate to add one other leaf 
To thy proud wreath of glory. ( Going.) 

Sal. Thou shalt not. (Enter Attendant.) 

Att. My lord, the troops assembled by your order 
Tumultuous throng the courts — the prince's death 
Not one of them but vows he will not suffer — 
The mutes have fled — the very guards rebel — 
Nor think I in this city's spacious round, 
Can e'er be found a hand to do the office. 

Mai. Ad. Oh, faithful friends ! (To Atten.) Thine shalt. 

Att. Mine ? — Never ! — 
The other first shall lop it from the body. 

Sal. They teach the emperor his duty well. 
Tell them he thanks them for it — tell them, too, 
That ere their opposition reached our ears, 
Saladin had forgiven Malek Adhel. 

Att. Oh joyful news ! 
I haste to gladden many a gallant heart, 
And dry the tear on many a hardy cheek 
Unused to such a visitor. (Exit.) 

Sal. These men, the meanest in society, 
The outcasts of the earth, — by war, by nature 
Hardened, and rendered callous — these, who claim 
No kindred with thee — who have never heard 
The accents of affection from thy lips — 
Oh, these can cast aside their vowed allegiance, 
Throw off their long obedience, risk their lives, 
To save thee from destruction. While I, 
I, who cannot in all my memory 
Call back one danger which thou hast not shared, 
One day of grief, one night of revelry, 



DIALOGUES- — SERIOUS AND COMIC. 511 

Which thy resistless kindness hath not soothed, 

Or thy gay smile and converse rendered sweeter ; 

I, who have thrice in the ensanguined field, 

When death seemed certain, only uttered — " Brother !" 

And seen that form like lightning rush between 

Saladin and his foes — and that brave breast 

Dauntless exposed to many a furious blow 

Intended for my own — I could forget 

That 't was to thee I owed the very breath 

Which sentenced thee to perish. Oh, 't is shameful ! 

Thou canst not pardon me. 

Mai. Ad. By these tears I can — 
Oh, brother ! from this very hour, a new, 
A glorious life commences — I am all thine. 
Again the day of gladness or of anguish 
Shall Malek Adhel share, and oft again 
May this sword fence thee in the bloody field. 
Henceforth, Saladin, 
My heart, my soul, my sword, are thine for ever. 

ANONYMOUS. 



HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. 

MR. H. STEWARD. 



Mr. H. Ha ! Steward, how are you, my old boy ? How do 
things go on at home ? 

Slew. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. 

Mr. H. Poor mag ! so he 's gone. How came he to die ? 

Stew. Over-ate himself, sir. 

Mr. H. Did he, faith ? a greedy dog ; why, what did he get 
he liked so well ? 

Stew. Horse-flesh, sir ; he died of eating horse-flesh. 

Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh ? 

Stew. All your father's horses, sir. 

Mr. H. What ! are they dead, too ? 

Steiv. Ay, sir ; they died of over- work. 

Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray ? 

Stew. To carry water, sir. 

Mr. H. To carry water ! and what were they carrying water 
for? 

Stew. Sure sir, to put out the fire. 

Mr. H. Fire ! what fire ? 



512 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Stew, Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to the 
ground. 

Mr. H. My father's house burned down ! and how came it set 
on fire ? 

Stew. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. 

Mr. H. Torches ! what torches ? 

Stew. At your mother's funeral. 

Mr. H. My mother dead ! 

Stew. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it. 

Mr. H. After what ? 

Stew. The loss of your father. 

Mr. H. My father gone too ? 

Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as* soon as he 
heard of it. 

Mr. H. Heard of what ? 

Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your honor. 

Mr. H. What ! more miseries ! more bad news ? 

Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, 
and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, 
to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to 
hear the news. anonymous. 



INDIGESTION. 

DR. GREGORY PATIENT. 

(Scene. — Dr. Gregory's study. Enter a plump Glasgow merchant.) 

Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory ! I 'm just come into Edin- 
burgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, 
at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my 
trouble. 

Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may 
your trouble be ? 

Pa. Indeed, doctor, I 'm not very sure ; but I 'm thinking it "s 
a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of 
pinkling about my stomach ; — I 'm just na right. 

Dr. You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir ? 

Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow. 

Dr. Ay ; pray, sir, are you a glutton ? 

Pa. God forbid, sir ; I 'm one of the plainest men living in 
all the west country. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 513 

Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard ? 

Pa. No, Dr. Gregory ; thank God, no one can accuse me of 
that. I 'm of the dissenting persuasion, doctor, and an elder ; 
so you may suppose I 'm na drunkard. 

Dr. I '11 suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of 
life. I 'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I 
should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When 
do you breakfast, and what do you take at it ? 

Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock ; take a cup of coffee, and one 
or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kip- 
pered salmon, or,' may be, both, if they 're good, and two or 
three rolls and butter. 

Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast ? 

Pa. Oh, yes, sir ! but I do n't count that as any thing. 

Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of 
a dinner do you make ? 

Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed. Some soup, 
and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled ; for I dinna care 
for made dishes : I think, some way, they never satisfy the 
appetite. 

Dr. You take a little pudding, then, and afterwards some 
cheese ? 

Pa. Oh, yes ! though I do n't care much about them. 

Dr. You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese ? 

Pa. Yes, one or the other ; but seldom both. 

Dr. You west-country people generally take a glass of High- 
land whisky after dinner. 

Pa. Yes, we do ; it 's good for digestion. 

Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner ? 

Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry ; but I 'm indifferent as to 
wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer. 

Dr. What quantity of port do you drink ? 

Pa. Oh, very little ; not above half a dozen glasses or so. 

Dr. In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine with- 
out punch ? 

Pa. Yes, sir ; indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly ; but for 
myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take 
more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that 's moderate. 

Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed ! You then, after this 
slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter ? 

Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the eve- 
ning letters. 

Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose ? 

Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper ; just something 
before going to bed ; — a rizzered haddock, or a bit of toasted 



514 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters, or the like o' that, and 
may be, two-thirds of a bottle of ale ; but I take no regular 
supper. 

Dr. But you take a little more punch after that ? 

Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I 
take a tumbler of warm whisky-toddy at night ; it is lighter to 
sleep on. 

Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every- 
day life ; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little ? 

Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I 
dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often 
happen. 

Dr. Not above twice a week ? 

Pa. No ; not oftener. 

Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite ? 

Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have ; indeed, any ill health that 
I have is about meal-time. 

Dr. (assuming a severe look, knitting his' brow, and lowering 
his eyebroivs). Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed. 
You come here and tell me you are a moderate man ; but upon 
examination, I find by your own showing, that you are a most 
voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man ; yet, by 
your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a 
wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat 
indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that 
you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand 
this ? Go home, sir, and leave your present course of riotous 
living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its 
tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors. 

Pa. I'm sure, doctor, I'm very much obliged to you (taking 
out a bundle of bank notes). I shall endeavor to — 

Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me : — put up your money, 
sir. Do you think I'll take a fee for telling you what you know 
as well as myself? Though you're no physician, sir, you are 
not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or take my 
word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE VALOROUS APOTHECARY. 

OLLAPOD SIR CHARLES CROPLAND. 

Olla. Sir Charles, I have the honor to be your slave. Hope 
your health is good. Been a hard winter here : sore throat? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 515 

were plenty ; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple one 
morning, in a half-mile walk from our town, to cure Mrs. Quarles 
of a quinsy. May coming on soon, Sir Charles. Hope you 
come to sojourn. Should n't be always on the wing ; that 's being 
too nighty. Do you take, good sir, do you take ? 

Sir C. Oh, yes, I take. But by the cockade in your hat, 
OUapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your avocations. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles, I have now the honor to be cor- 
net in the volunteer association corps of our town. It fell out 
unexpected — pop on a sudden ; like the going-off of a field- 
piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy. 

Sir C. Explain. 

Olla. Happening to be at home — rainy day — no going out 
to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed — was busy behind the counter. 
You know my shop, Sir Charles — Galen's Head over the door, 
— new-gilt him last week, by the by — looks as fresh as a pill. 

Sir C. Well, no more on that head now : proceed. 

Olla. On that head ! That's very well — very well, indeed ! 
Thank you, good sir — I owe you one. Churchwarden Posh, of 
our town, being ill of an indigestion, from eating three pounds 
of measly pork, at a vestry dinner, I was making up a cathartic 
for the patient, when, who should strut into the shop but 
Lieutenant Grains, the brewer — sleek as a dray-horse — in a 
smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-colored 
lapel. I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him as I was 
thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military 
ardor. 

Sir C. Inoculated ! I hope your ardor was of a very favor- 
able sort. 

Olla. Ha ! ha ! That 's very well — very well, indeed ! Thank 
you, good sir — I owe you one. We first talked of shooting ; — 
he knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I told him the day 
before I had killed six brace of birds; — I thumped on at the 
mortar. We then talked of physic. I told him the day before 
I had killed — lost, I mean — six brace of patients ; — I thumped 
on at the mortar — eyeing him all the while ; for he looked 
mighty flashy, to be sure ; and I felt an itching to belong to the 
corps. The medical and military both deal in death, you know : 
so 'twas natural. Do you take, good sir — do you take ? 

Sir C. Take ? Oh, nobody can miss. 

Olla. He then talked of the corps itself ; said it was sickly : 
and if a professional person would administer to the health of 
the association — dose the men, and drench the horses — he could, 
perhaps, procure him a cornetcy. 

Sir O. Well, you jumped at the offer ! 



516 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Olla. Jumped ! I jumped over the counter — kicked down 
Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of Lieutenant 
Grains' smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb- 
colored lapel ; embraced him and his offer ; and I am now 
Cornet Ollapod, apothecary, at the Galen's Head, of the associ- 
ation corps of cavalry, at your service. 

Sir C. I wish you joy of your appointment ! You may now 
distil water for the shop from the laurels you gather in the field. 

Olla. Water for — oh! laurel-water. Come, that's very 
well — very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir — I owe you 
one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the poison of a small 
mistake I made has ceased to operate. 

Sir C. A mistake ? 

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand 
field-day, clapped a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet drink into 
one of my holsters, intending to proceed to the patient after the 
exercise was over. I reached the martial ground, and jalaped — 
galloped, I mean — wheeled and flourished with great eclat; 
but when the word " Fire ! " was given, meaning to pull out my 
pistol, in a horrible hurry I presented, neck foremost, the vil- 
lainous diet drink of Lady Kitty Carbuncle ; and the medicine 
being, unfortunately, fermented by the jolting of my horse, it 
forced out the cork with a prodigious pop, full in the face of my 
gallant commander. 

Sir C. But, in the midst of so many pursuits, how proceeds 
practice among the ladies? Any new faces since I left the 
country ? 

Olla. Nothing worth an item ; nothing new arrived in our 
town. In the village, to be sure, hard by, Miss Emily Wor- 
thington, a most brilliant beauty, has lately given lustre to the 
estate of farmer Harrowby. 

Sir C. My dear doctor, the lady of all others I wish most to 
know. Introduce yourself to the family, and pave the way for 
me. Come ! mount your horse — I '11 explain more as you go 
to the stable ; but I am in a flame — in a fever, till I see you off. 

Olla. In a fever ! I '11 send you physic enough to fill a bag- 
gage wagon. 

Sir 0. (Aside.) So ! a long bill as the price of his politeness! 

Olla. You need not bleed ; but you must have medicine. 

Sir C. If I must have medicine, Ollapod, I fancy I shall 
bleed pretty freely. 

Olla. Come, that 's very well — very well, indeed ! Thank 
you, good sir — I owe you one. Before dinner, a strong dose 
of coloquintida, senna, scammony, and gamboge — 

Sir C. Oh, confound scammony and gamboge ! 



DIALOGUES — -SERIOUS AND COMIC. 517 

Olla. At night, a narcotic ; next day, saline draughts, cam- 
phorated jalap, and — 

Sir C. Zounds ! only go, and I '11 swallow your whole shop. 

Olla. Galen forbid ! 'T is enough to kill every customer I have 
in the parish. Then we'll throw in the bark; — by-the-by, 
talking of bark, Sir Charles, that Juno of yours is the prettiest 
pointer — 

Sir C. Well, well — she is yours. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! such sport next shooting season! 
If I had but a double-barreled gun — 

Sir C. Take mine that hangs in the hall. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! (Aside.) Here 's morning's 
work ; sennaand coloquintidi . 

Sir C. Well, begone, then. (Pushing him.) 

Olla. I 'm off : — scammony and gamboge ! 

Sir C. Nay, fly, man ! 

Olla. I do, Sir Charles. A double-barreled gun — I fly — 
the bark — I'm going — Juno — a narcotic S 

Sir C. Off with you ! colman. 



THE EMBRYO LAWYER. 

OLD FICKLE TRISTRAM FICKLE. 



Old F. What reputation, what honor, what profit can accrue 
to you from such conduct as yours ? One moment you tell me 
you are going to become the greatest musician in the world, and 
straight you fill my house with fiddlers. 

Tri. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir. 

Old F. Then, from a fiddler, you are metamorphosed into a 
philosopher ; and for the noise of drums, trumpets, and haut- 
boys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintelligible than was 
ever heard at the tower of Babel. 

Tri. You are right, sir. I have found out that philosophy is 
folly ; so I have cut the philosophers of all sects, from Plato 
and Aristotle down to the puzzlers of modern date. 

Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper the other day for 
barreling you up in a large tub, when you resolved to live like 
Diogenes ? 

Tri. You should not have paid him anything, sir, for the tub 
would not hold. You see the contents are run out. 



518 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Old F. No jesting, sir ; this is no laughing matter. Your 
follies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken the 
whole round of arts and sciences in a month, and have been of 
fifty different minds in half an hour. 

Tri. And, by that, shown the versatility of my genius. 

Old F. Do n't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a little 
steadiness. You have never yet been constant to anything but 
extravagance. 

Tri. Yes, sir, one thing more. 

Old F. What is that, sir ? 

Tri. Affection for you. However my head may have wan- 
dered, my heart has always been constantly attached to the 
kindest of parents ; and, from this moment, I am resolved to 
lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of conduct which will 
be most pleasing to the best of fathers and of friends. 

Old F. Well said, my boy — well said ! You make me happy 
indeed. (Patting him on the shoulder.) Now, then, my dear 
Tristram, let me know what you really mean to do. 

Tri. To study the law — 

Old F. The law ! 

Tri. I am most resolutely bent on following that profession. 

Old F. No ! 

Tri. Absolutely and irrevocably fixed. 

Old F. Better and better. I am overjoyed. Why, 't is the 
very thing I wished. Now I am happy ! ( Tristram, makes ges- 
tures as if speaking. ) See how his mind is engaged ! 

Tri. Gentlemen of the jurv — 

Old F. Why, Tristram — 

Tri. This is a cause — 

Old F. Oh, my dear boy ! I forgive you all your tricks. I 
see something about you now that I can depend on. ( Tristram 
continues making gestures.) 

Tri. I am for the plaintiff in this cause — 

Old. F. Bravo ! bravo ! — excellent boy ! I '11 go and order 
your books directly. 

Tri. 'T is done, sir. 

Old F. What, already ? 

Tri. I ordered twelve square feet of books when I first 
thought of embracing the arduous profession of the law. 

Old F. What, do you mean to read by the foot ? 

Tri. By the foot, sir ; that is the only way to become a solid 
lawyer. 

Old F. Twelve square feet of learning ! Well — 

Tri. I have likewise sent for a barber — 

Old F. A barber ! What, is he to teach you to shave close ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 519 

Tri. He is to shave one half of my head, sir. 

Old F. You will excuse me if I cannot perfectly understand 
what that has to do with the study of the law. 

Tri. Did you never hear of Demosthenes, sir, the Athenian 
orator ? He had half his head shaved, and locked himself up 
in a coal-cellar. 

Old F. Ah ! he was perfectly right to lock himself up after 
having undergone such an operation as that. He certainly 
would have made rather an odd figure abroad. 

Tri. I think I see him now, awaking the dormant patriotism 
of his countrymen — lightning in his eye, and thunder in his 
voice ; he pours forth a torrent of eloquence, resistless in its 
force ; the throne of Philip trembles while he speaks ; he de- 
nounces, and indignation fills the bosom of his hearers ; he 
exposes the impending danger, and every one sees impending 
ruin ; he threatens the tyrant — they grasp their swords ; he 
calls for vengeance — their thirsty weapons glitter in the air, 
and thousands reverberate the cry. One soul animates a nation, 
and that soul is the soul of the orator. 

Old F. Oh ! what a figure he '11 make in the King's Bench ? 
But, come, I will tell you now what my plan is, and then you 
will see how happily this determination of yours will further it. 
You have ( Tristram makes extravagant gestures, as if speaking ) 
often heard me speak of my friend Briefwit, the barrister — 

Tri. Who is against me in this cause — 

Old F. He is a most learned lawyer — 

Tri. But as I have justice on my side — 

Old F. Zounds ! he does n't hear a word I say ! Why, Tris- 
tram ! 

Tri. I beg your pardon, sir ; I was prosecuting my studies. 

Old F. Now, attend — 

Tri. As my learned friend observes — Go on, sir, I am all 
attention. 

Old F. Well, my friend the counsellor — 

Tri. Say learned friend, if you please, sir. We gentlemen 
of the law always — 

Old F. Well, well — my learned friend — 

Tri. A black patch ! 

Old F. Will you listen, and be silent ? 

Tri. I am as mute as a judge. 

Old F. My friend, I say, has a ward, who is very handsome, 
and who has a very handsome fortune. She would make you 
a charming wife. 

Tri. This is an action — 

Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid to introduce you to 



520 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

my friend, the barrister, because I thought your lightness and 
his gravity — 

Tri. Might be plaintiff and defendant. 

Old F. But now you are grown serious and steady, and have 
resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring you 
together : you will obtain his good opinion, and all the rest fol- 
lows of course. 

Tri. A verdict in my favor. 

Old F. You marry and sit down, happy for life. 

Tri. In the King's Bench. 

Old F. Bravo ! Ha, ha, ha ! But now run to your study — 
run to your study, my dear Tristram, and I '11 go and call upon 
the counsellor. 

Tri. I remove by habeas corpus. 

Old F. Pray have the goodness to make haste, then. (Hur- 
rying him off.) 

Tri. Gentlemen of the jury, this is a cause — (Exit.) 

Old F. The inimitable boy ! I am now the happiest father 
living. What genius he has ! He '11 be lord chancellor one day 
or other, I dare be sworn. I am sure he has talents ! Oh, how 
I long to see him at the bar ! allingham. 



THE IRISH SERVANT. 

DOCTOR WISEPATE — THADY O'KEEN - 



(Doctor Wisepate, in a morning-gown and velvet night-cap, discovered 
at a table at breakfast. A wig-box near him, lying open.) 

Dr. W. Plague on her ladyship's ugly cur! — it has broke 
three bottles of bark that I had prepared myself for Lord Spleen. 
I wonder Lady Apes troubled me with it. But I understand it 
threw down her flower-pots and destroyed all her myrtles. I 'd 
send it home this minute, but I 'm unwilling to offend its mis- 
tress ; for, as she has a deal of money, and no relation, she may 
think proper to remember me in her will. (Noise luithin.) Eh ! 
what noise is that in the hall ? 

(Enter Thady 0' 'Keen, dirty and wet, followed by Robert.) 

T. O'K. But I must and will, do you see. Very pretty, 
indeed, keeping people standing in the hall, shivering and shak- 
ing with the wet and cold ! 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 521 

Bob. The mischief 's in you, I believe ; you order me about as 
if you were my master. 

Dr. W. Why, what 's all this ! who is this unmannerly fel- 
low ? 

T. O'K. There ! your master says you are an unmannerly 
fellow. 

Bob. Sir, it 's Lady Ape's servant : he has a letter, and says 
he won't deliver it into any one's hands but your honor's. Now, 
I warrant my master will teach you better behavior. [Exit.) 

T. O'K. Oh, are you sure you are Doctor Wisepate ? 

Dr. W. Sure ! to be sure I am. 

T. O'K. Och ! plague on my hat, how wet it is ! (Shakes 
his hat about the room, dkc.) 

Dr. W. [lays his spectacles down and rises from the table.) 
Zounds ! fellow, do n't wet my room in that manner ! 

T. O'K. Eh ! Well — Oh, I beg pardon — there 's the letter : 
and since I must not dry my hat in your room, why, as you par- 
ticularly desire it, I will go down to the kitchen, and dry it and 
myself before the fire. ( Gtoes out.) 

Dr. W. Here, you, sir, come back. I must teach him better 
manners. (Be-enter Thady 0' Keen.) Hark you, fellow — 
whom do you live with ? 

T. O'K. Whom do I live with ? why, with my mistress, to be 
sure, Lady Apes. 

Dr. W. And pray, sir, how long have you lived with her lady- 
ship ? 

T. O'K. How long ? Ever since the first day she hired me. 

Dr. W. And has her ladyship taught you no better manners ? 

T. O'K. Manners ? she never taught me any, good or bad. 

Dr. W. Then, sir, I will ; I '11 show you how you should 
address a gentleman when you enter a room. What 's your 



name 



T. O'K. Name ? — why, its Thady O'Keen, my jewel. What 
in wonder is he going to do with my name ! (Aside.) 

Dr. W. Then, sir, you shall be Dr. Wisepate for a while, and 
I '11 be Thady O'Keen, just to show you how you should enter a 
room and deliver a letter. 

T. O'K. Eh ! what ? make a swap of ourselves ! With all 
my heart. Here 's my wet hat for you. 

Dr. W. There, sit down in my chair. ( Going.) 

T. O'K. Stop, stop, honey — by my soul you can never be 
Thady O'Keen, without you have this little shillelagh in your 
fist. — There. 

Dr. W. Very well. Sit you down. (Takes Thady'' 's hat, dtc, 
and goes out. ) 

44 



522 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

T. O'K. (solus). Let me see ; I can never be a doctor either, 
without some sort of a wig. Oh, here is one — and here is my 
spectacles, faith. On my conscience, I 'm the thing ! (Puts on 
the wig awkiuardly, and the spectacles ; then sits in the doctor's 
chair. Dr. Wisepate knocks.) Walk in, honey. (Helps himself 
to chocolate, and bread and butter. ) 

(Re-enter Dr. Wisepate, bowing.) 

Dr. W. Please your honor — (Aside.) — What assurance the 
fellow has ! 

T. O'K. Speak out, young man, and do n't be bashful. (Eat- 
ing, &c.) 

Dr. W. Please your honor, my lady sends her respectful 
compliments — hopes your honor is well. 

T. 0' K. Pretty well, pretty well, I thank you. 

Dr. W. And has desired me to deliver your honor this letter. 

T. O'JT. That letter, well, why do n't you bring it to me ? 
Pray, am I to rise from the table ? 

Dr. W. So, he 's acting my character with a vengeance. But 
I '11 humor him. (Aside.) There, your honor. ( Gives the letter, 
bowing. ) 

T. ' K. ( Opens the letter and reads.) 

" Sir : — Since my dear Flora has given you so much uneasi- 
ness — Och, by my shoul, that 's no lie — I beg leave to inform 
you that a gentleman shall call either to-day or to-morrow for 
her. If it should rain, I request the poor thing may have a — 
what 's this ? — Co a — coat ! — coat ! no — coach. Yours." — 
Hem ! well — no answer 's required, young man. 

Dr. W. His impudence has struck me almost dumb. (Aside.) 
ISTo answer, your honor ? 

T. O'K. No, my good fellow — but come here — let me look 
at you. Oh, you seem very wet. Why it 's you, I understand, 
who brought this troublesome cur a few days ago : you have 
been often backward and forward, but I could never see you 
till now. Halloo, Robert ! where 's my lazy good-for-nothing- 
servant ? Robert ! (Rings a bell.) 

Dr. W. Eh ! what the deuce does he mean ? (Aside.) 
(Enter Robert, who stares at them both.) 

Rob. Eh ! — Did — did you call, sir ? ( To Dr. Wisepate.) 

T. O'K. Yes, sirrah ! Take that poor fellow down to the 
kitchen ; he 's come upon a foolish errand this cold, wet day ; 
so, do you see, give him something to eat and drink — as much 
as he likes — and bid my steward give him a guinea for his 
trouble. 

Rob. Eh ! 

T. O'K. Thunder and ouns, fellow ! must I put my words into 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 523 

my mouth, and take them out again, for you ? Thady (to the 
Doctor), my jewel, just give that blockhead of mine a rap on his 
sconce with your little bit of a switch, and I '11 do as much for 
you another time. 

Dr. W. So, instead of my instructing the fellow, he has abso- 
lutely instructed me. [Aside.) Well, sir, you have convinced 
me what Dr. Wisepate should be, and now suppose we are our- 
selves again. 

T. O'K. (rises). With all my heart, sir. Here 's your hon- 
or's wig and spectacles, and now give me my comfortable hat 
and switch. 

Dr. W. And, Robert, obey the orders that my representative 
gave you. 

Bob. What ! carry him down to the kitchen ! 

T. O'K. No, young man, I shan't trouble you to carry me 
down ; I '11 carry myself down, and you shall see what a beau- 
tiful hand Master O'Keen is at a knife and fork. (Exit, with 
Robert.) 

Dr. W. (solus). Well, this fellow has some humor; indeed, 
he has fairly turned the tables upon me. I wish I could get 
him to give a dose of my prescribing to her ladyship's cats and 
dogs, for the foolish woman has absolutely bequeathed in her 
will an annual sum for the care of each, after her death. Oh, 
dear ! dear ! how much more to her credit would it be to con- 
sider the present exigencies of her country, and add to the num- 
ber of voluntary contributions ! oulton. 



THE STYGIAN FERRY. 



GHOSTS OF AN ENGLISH DUELIST AND A NORTH- AMERICAN SAVAGE 

MERCURY. 

Duel. Mercury, Charon's boat is on the other side of the 
water. Allow me, before it returns, to have some conversation 
with the North- American Savage, whom you brought hither 
with me. I never before saw one of that species. He looks 
very grim. Pray, sir, what is your name ? I understand you 
speak English. 

Sav. Yes, I learned it in my childhood, having been bred for 
some years among the English of New York. But, before I was 
a man, I returned to my valiant countrymen, the Mohawks ; and 
having been villanously cheated by one of your's in the sale of 
some rum, I never cared to have anything to do with them 



524 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

afterwards. Yet I took up the hatchet for them with the rest of 
my tribe in the late war against France, and was killed while I 
was out upon a scalping party. But I died very well satisfied : 
for my brethren were victorious ; and, before I was shot, I had 
gloriously scalped seven men, and five women and children. In 
a former war, I had performed still greater exploits. My name 
is the Bloody-Bear : it was given me to express my fierceness 
and valor. 

Duel. Bloody-Bear, I respect you, and am much your humble 
servant. My name is Tom Pushwell, very well known at 
Arthur's. I am a gentleman by my birth, and by profession a 
gamester and a man of honor. I have killed men in fair fighting, 
in honorable single combat ; but do n't understand cutting the 
throats of women and children. 

Sav. Sir, that is our way of making war. Every nation has 
its customs. But by the grimness of your countenance, and that 
hole in your breast, I presume you were killed as I was, in some 
scalping party. How happened it that your enemy did not take 
off your scalp ? 

Duel. Sir, I was killed in a duel. A friend of mine had lent 
me a sum of money ; and after two or three years, being in 
great want himself, he asked me to pay him. I thought his 
demand, which was somewhat peremptory, an affront to my honor, 
and sent him a challenge. We met in Hyde Park. The fellow 
could not fence : but I was absolutely the adroitest swordsman 
in England. So I gave him three or four wounds ; but at last 
he ran upon me with such impetuosity, that he put me out of my 
play, and I could not prevent him from whipping me through 
the lungs. I died the next day, as a man of honor should ; 
without any sniveling signs of contrition or repentance : and he 
will follow me soon ; for his surgeon has declared his wounds to 
be mortal. It is said that his wife is dead of grief, and that his 
family of seven children will be undone by his death. So I am 
well revenged, and that is a comfort. For my part, I had no wife. 
I always hated marriage : my mistress will take good care of 
herself, and my children are provided for at the foundling hospital. 

Sav. Mercury, I won't go in the boat with that fellow. He 
has murdered his countryman ; he has murdered his friend : I 
say positively, I won't go in the boat with that fellow. I will 
swim over the river : I can swim like a duck. 

Mer. Swim over the Styx ! it must not be done : it is against 
the laws of Pluto's empire. You must go in the boat and be 
quiet. 

Sav. Do n't tell me of laws ; I am a savage : I value no laws. 
Talk of laws to the Englishman : there are laws in his country ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 525 

and yet you see lie did not regard them. For they could never 
allow him to kill his fellow-subject, in time of peace, because he 
asked him to pay an honest debt. I know, indeed, that the 
English are a barbarous nation : but they can 't possibly be so 
brutal as to make such things lawful. 

Mer. You reason well against him. But how comes it that 
you are so offended with murder ; you, who have frequently 
massacred women in their sleep, and children in the cradle ? 

Sav. I killed none but my enemies : I never killed my own 
countrymen : I never killed my friend. Here, take my blanket, 
and let it come over in the boat ; but see that the murderer does 
not sit upon it, or touch it. If he does, I will burn it instantly 
in the fire I see yonder. Farewell. I am determined to swim 
over the water. 

Mer. By this touch of my wand, I deprive thee of all thy 
strength. Swim now, if thou canst. 

Sav. This is a potent enchanter. Restore me my strength, 
and I promise to obey thee. 

Mer. I restore it ; but be orderly, and do as I bid you ; other- 
wise worse will befall you. 

Duel. Mercury, leave him to me. I'll tutor him for you. 
Sirrah Savage, dost thou pretend to be ashamed of my company? 
Dost thou not know that I have kept the best company in 
England ? 

Sav. I know thou art a scoundrel. Not pay thy debts ! kill 
thy friend who lent thee money for asking thee for it ! Get out 
of my sight. I will drive thee into the Styx. 

Mer. Stop. I command thee. No violence. Talk to him 
calmly. 

Sav. I must obey thee. Well, sir, let me know what merit 
you had to introduce you into good company ? What could 
you do. 

Duel. Sir, I gamed, as I told you. Besides, I kept a good 
table. I eat as well as any man either in England or France. 

Sav. Eat ! did you ever eat the liver of a Frenchman, or his 
leg, or his shoulder ? There is fine eating for you ! I have eat 
twenty. My table was always well served. My wife was 
esteemed the best cook for the dressing of man's flesh in all 
North America. You will not pretend to compare your eating 
with mine ? 

Duel. I danced very finely. 

Sav. I '11 dance with thee for thy ears. I can dance all day 
long. I can dance the war dance with more spirit than any man 
of the nation. Let us see thee begin it. How thou stf" ? ' 
like a post ! Has Mercury struck thee with his enfeebling 



526 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Or art thou ashamed to let us see how awkward thou art ? If 
he would permit me, I would teach thee to dance in a way that 
thou hast never yet learned. But what else canst thou do, thou 
bragging rascal ? 

Duel. misery ! must I bear all this ! What can I do with 
this fellow ? I have neither sword nor pistol ; and his shade 
seems to be twice as strong as mine. 

Mer. You must answer his questions. It was your own 
desire to have a conversation with him. He is not well bred ; 
but he will tell you some truths which you must necessarily hear, 
when you come before Rhadamanthus. He asked you what you 
could do besides eating and dancing. 

Duel. I sung very agreeably. 

Sav. Let me hear you sing your death-song, or the war- 
whoop. I challenge you to sing. Come, begin. The fellow is 
mute. Mercury, this is a liar. He has told us nothing but 
lies. Let me pull out his tongue. 

Duel. The lie given me ! and, alas ! I dare not resent it ! 
What an indelible disgrace to the family of the Pushwells ! 
This is indeed tormenting. 

Mer. Here, Charon, take these two savages to your care. 
How far the barbarism of the Mohawk will excuse his horrid 
acts, I leave Minos to judge. But what can be said for the 
Englishman ? Can he plead the custom of dueling ? A bad 
excuse at the best ! but here it cannot avail. The spirit that 
urged him to draw his sword against his friend is not that of 
honor ; it is the spirit of the furies ; and to them he must go. 

Sav. If he is to be punished for his wickedness, turn him over 
to me. I perfectly understand the art of tormenting. Sirrah, 
I begin my work with this box on your ears, and will soon teach 
you better manners than you have yet learned. 

Duel. Oh, my honor, my honor, to what infamy art thou 
fallen ! 



THE PROPHET OF MECCA. 

MOHAMMED ALCANOR. 



Moh. Why dost thou start, Alcanor ? whence that horror ? 
Approach, old man, without a blush, since heaven, 
For some high end, decrees our future union. 

Ale. I blush not for myself, but thee, thou tyrant ; 
For thee, bad man, who com'st with serpent guile, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 527 

To sow dissension in the realms of peace. 

Thy very name sets families at variance, 

'Twixt son and father bursts the bonds of nature, 

And scares endearment from the nuptial pillow ! 

And is it, insolent dissembler ! thus 

Thou com'st to give the sons of Mecca peace, 

And me an unknown god ? 

Moli. Were I to answer any but Alcanor, 
That unknown god should speak in thunder for me ; 
But here with thee I 'd parley as a man. 

Ale. What canst thou say ? what urge in thy defense ? 
What right hast thou received to plant new faiths, 
Or lay a claim to royalty and priesthood ? 

Moh. The right that a resolved and towering spirit 
Has o'er the groveling instinct of the vulgar. [hammed, 

Ale. Patience, good heavens ! have I not known thee, Mo- 
When void of wealth, inheritance, or fame, 
Ranked with the lowest of the low at Mecca ? 

Moh. Dost thou not know, thou haughty, feeble man, 
That the low insect, lurking in the grass, 
And the imperial eagle, which aloft 
Ploughs the ethereal plain, are both alike 
In the Eternal Eye ? 

Ale. What sacred truth ! from what polluted lips ! [Aside.) 

Moh. Hear me ; thy Mecca trembles at my name ; 
If therefore thou wouldst save thyself or city, 
Embrace my proffered friendship. What to-day 
I thus solicit, I '11 command to-morrow. 

Ale. Contract with thee a friendship ! frontless man 
Know'st thou a god can work that miracle ? 

Moh. I do — necessity — thy interest. 

Ale. Interest is thy god, equity is mine. 
Propose the tie of this unnatural union ; 
Say, is 't the loss of thy ill-fated son, 
Who in the field fell victim to my rage ; 
Or the dear blood of my poor captive children, 
Shed by thy butchering hands ? 

Moh. Ay, 't is thy children. 
Mark me then well, and learn the important secret, 
Which I 'm sole master of — thy children live. 

Ale. Live ! 

Moh. Yes ! both live. 

Ale. What say'st thou ? Both ? 

Moh. Ay, both. 

Ale. And dost thou not beguile me ? 



528 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Moh. No, old man. 

Ale. Propitious heavens ? Say, Mohammed, for now 
Methinks I could hold endless converse with thee ; 
Say what 's their portion, liberty or bondage ? 

Moh. Bred in my camp, and tutored in my law, 
I hold the balance of their destinies ; 
And now 't is on the turn — their lives or deaths — 
'T is thine to say which shall preponderate. 

Ale. Mine ! can I save them ? name the mighty ransom — 
If I must bear their chains, double the weight, 
And I will kiss the hand that puts them on ; 
Or if my streaming blood must be the purchase, 
Drain every sluice and channel of my body ; 
My swelling veins will burst to give it passage ! 

Moh. I '11 tell thee, then : Renounce thy pagan faith, 
Abolish thy vain gods, and — 

Ale. Ha ! 

Moh. Nay, more : 
Surrender Mecca to me, quit this temple, 
Assist me to impose upon the world, 
Thunder my Koran to the gazing crowd, 
Proclaim me for their prophet and their king, 
And be a glorious pattern of credulity 
To Korah's stubborn tribe. These terms performed, 
Thy son shall be restored, and Mohammed's self 
Will deign to wed thy daughter. 

Ale. Hear me, Mohammed : — 
I am a father, and this bosom boasts 
A heart as tender as e'er parent bore. 
After a fifteen years of anguish for them, 
Once more to view my children, clasp them to me, 
And die in their embraces — melting thought ! 
But were I doomed or to enslave my country, 
And help to spread black error o'er the earth, 
Or to behold those blood-imbrued hands 
Deprive me of them both — know me, then, Mohammed, 
I 'd not admit a doubt to cloud my choice — 

(Looks earnestly at Mohammed for some time be/ore he speaks.) 
Farewell ! (Exit.) 

Moh. Why, fare thee well, then, churlish dotard : 
Inexorable fool ! Now, by my arms, 
I will have great revenge : I '11 meet thy scorn" 
With triple retribution ! miller. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 529 

THE DRAMATIST. 

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY DANGLE SNEER. 

Ban. Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the managers 
yet ? — or can I be of any service to you ? 

Sir F. No, no, I thank you ; I believe the piece had sufficient 
recommendation with it. — I thank you, though — I sent it to 
the manager of Covent- Garden theatre this morning. 

Sneer. I should have thought that it might have been cast (as 
the actors call it) better at Drury-Lane. 

Sir F. Oh ! no — never send a play there, while I live — 
hark 'ee ! ( Whispers Sneer.) 

Sneer. " Writes himself ! " — I know he does — 

Sir F. I say nothing — I take away from no man's merit — 
am hurt at no man's good fortune — I say nothing. — But this I 
will say, through all my knowledge of life I have observed, that 
there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as 
envy ! 

Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed. 

Sir F. Besides, I can tell you it is not always so safe to leave 
a play in the hands of those who write themselves. 

Sneer. What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear Pla- 
giary ? 

Sir F. Steal ! to be sure they may ; and, serve our best 
thoughts as gipsies do stolen children, disfigure them to make 
'em pass for their own. 

Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene, and 
he you know never — 

Sir F. That 's no security. A dextrous plagiarist may do 
anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some 
of the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his own 
comedy. 

Sneer. That might be done, I dare be sworn. 

Sir F. And then, if such a person gives you the least hint or 
assistance, he is apt to take the merit of the whole — 

Dan. If it succeeds. 

Sir F. Ay : but with regard to this piece, I think I can hit 
that gentleman, for I can safely aver he never read it. 

Sneer. I '11 tell you how you may hurt him more. 

Sir F. How? 

Sneer. Declare he wrote it. 

Sir F. Plague on 't now, Sneer, I shall take it ill. — I believe 
you want to take away my character as an author. 
45 



530 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Sneer. Then I am sure you ought to be very much obliged 
to me. 

Sir F. Hey! sir! — 

Dan. Oh, you know he never means what he says. 

Sir F. Sincerely then — you do like the piece ? 

Sneer. Wonderfully ! 

Sir F. But come now, there must be something that you 
think might be mended, hey ? — Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck 
you ? 

Ban. Why, truly, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most 
part, to — 

Sir F. With most authors it is just so indeed ; they are in 
general strangely tenacious ! But, for my part I am never so 
well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to 
me ; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if 
you do not mean to profit by his opinion ? 

Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the 
piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection ; which, 
if you '11 give me leave, I '11 mention. 

Sir F. Sir, you can 't oblige me more. 

Sneer. I think it wants incident. 

Sir F. You surprise me ! — wants incident ? 

Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few. 

Sir F. Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no person for whose 
judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I protest to 
you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are 
too crowded. — My dear Dangle, how does it strike you ? 

Dan. Really, I can 't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the 
plot quite sufficient ; and the first four acts by many degrees the 
best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to sug- 
gest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth. 

Sir F. Rises, I believe you mean, sir. 

Dom. No, I do not, upon my word. 

Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ; it certainly do n't 
fall off, I assure you. No, no ; it do n't fall off. 

Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as 
easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours. 

Sir F. The newspapers ! Sir, they are the most villainous — 
licentious — abominable — infernal — Not that I ever read them 
— No — I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper. 

Dan. You are quite right ; for it certainly must hurt an 
author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take. 

Sir F. No ! quite the contrary ; their abuse is, in fact, the 
best panegyric — I like it of all things. An author's reputation 
is only in danger from their support. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 531 

Sneer. Why that 's true — and that attack, now, on you the 
other day — 

Sir F. What? where? * 

Dan. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday : it was com- 
pletely ill-natured, to be sure. 

Sir F. Oh, so much the better. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I would n't 
have it otherwise. 

Dan. Certainly, it is only to be laughed at, for — 

Sir F. You do n't happen to recollect what the fellow said, 
do you ? 

Sneer. Pray, Dangle, — Sir Fretful seems a little anxious — 

Sir F. Oh no ! — anxious, — not I, — not the least — I — but 
one may as well hear, you know. 

Dan. Sneer, do you recollect ? Make out something. 

(Aside.) 

Sneer. I will. (To Dangle.) Yes, yes, I remember per- 
fectly. 

Sir F. Well, and pray now — not that it signifies — what 
might the gentleman say ? 

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slight- 
est invention or original genius whatever ; though you are the 
greatest traducer of all other authors living. 

Sir F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good ! 

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your 
own, he believes, even in your common-place book, where stray 
jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as 
the ledger of the lost and stolen office. 

Sir F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very pleasant ! 

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill 
even to steal with taste : but that you glean from the refuse of 
obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been 
before you ; so that the body of your work is a composition of 
dregs and sediments, like a bad tavern's worst wine. 

SirF. Ha! ha! 

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast 
would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to the 
expression ; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through 
the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in 
one of the new uniforms ! 

Sir F. Ha ! ha ! 

Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the gen- 
eral coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground 
of linsey-woolsey ; while your imitations of Shakspeare resem- 
ble the mimicry of Falstaff's page, and are about as near the 
standard of the original. 



532 



THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



Sir F. Ha ! 

Sneer, In short, that even the fine passages you steal are of 
no service to you; for the poverty of your own language pre- 
vents their assimilating ; so that they lie on the surface like lumps 
of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their 
power to fertilize ! 

Sir F. (after great agitation.) Now another person would 
be vexed at this. 

Sneer. Oh ! but I would n't have told you, only to divert 
you. 

Sir F. I know it — I am diverted. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — not the 
least invention ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! very good ! — very good ! 

Sneer. Yes — no genius ! Ha ! ha! ha ! 
_ Dan. A severe rogue ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! But you are quite 
right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense. 

Sir F. To be sure — for if there is anything to praise, it is a 
foolish vanity to be gratified at it ; and if it is abuse, why one 
is always sure to hear of it from one rascally good-natured friend 
or another ! sheridan. 



THE SWISS PATRIOT. 



GESLER ALBERT SARNEM TELL VERNER OFFICERS — 

SOLDIERS PEOPLE. 

Scene 1. — A mountain with mist. (Gesler seen descending with a 
hunting pole.) 

Ges. Alone — alone ! and every step the mist 
Thickens around me ! On these mountain tracks 
To lose one's way, they say, is sometimes death ! 
What, ho ! Holloa ! No tongue replies to me ! 
What thunder hath the horror of this silence ! 
Cursed slaves, to let me wander from them ! Ho — Holloa ! 
My voice sounds weaker to mine ear ; I 've not 
The strength to call I had ; and through my limbs 
Cold tremor runs, and sickening faintness seizes 
On my heart. heaven, have mercy ! Do not see 
The color of the hands I lift to thee ! 
Look only on the strait wherein I stand, 
And pity it ! Let me not sink — Uphold ! 
Support me ! Mercy ! — mercy ! (He falls with faintness.) 

Albert enters, almost breathless from the fury of the storm.) 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 533 

Alb. I '11 breathe upon this level, if the wind 
Will let me. Ha ! a rock to shelter me ! 
Thanks to it — a man ! and fainting. Courage, friend ! 
Courage. — A stranger that has lost his way — 
Take heart — take heart : you are safe. How feel you now ? 

Ges. Better. 

Alb. You have lost your way upon the hills ? 

Ges. I have. 

Alb. And whither would you go ? 

Ges. To Altorf. 

Alb. I '11 guide you thither. 

Ges. You are a child. 

Alb. I know the way ; the track I 've come 
Is harder far to find. 

Ges. The track you have come ! — What mean you ? Sure 
You have not been still farther in the mountains ? 

Alb. I have traveled from Mount Faigel. 

Ges. No one with thee ? 

Alb. No one but Him. 

Ges. Do you not fear these storms ? 

Alb. He 's in the storm. 

Ges. And there are torrents, too, 
That must be crossed ! 

Alb. He 's by the torrent too. 

Ges. You are but a child. 

Alb. He will be with a child. 

Ges. You are sure you know the way ? 

Alb. 'T is but to keep the side of yonder stream. 

Ges. But guide me safe, I '11 give thee gold. 

Alb. I '11 guide thee safe without. 

Ges. Here 's earnest for thee. Here — I '11 double that, 
Yea, triple it — but let me see the gate of Altorf. 
Why do you refuse the gold ? Take it. 

Alb. No. 

Ges. You shall. 

Alb. I will not. 

Ges. Why? 

Alb. Because 
I do not covet it ; — and though I did, 
It would be wrong to take it as the price 
Of doing one a kindness. 

Ges. Ha ! — who taught thee that ? 

Alb. My father. 

Ges. Does he live in Altorf ? 

Alb. No : in the mountains. 



534 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ges. How — a mountaineer ? 
He should become a tenant of the city : 
He would gain by it. 

Alb. Not so much as he might lose by it. 

Ges. What might he lose by it ? 

Alb. Liberty. 

Ges. Indeed ! He also taught thee that ? 

Alb. He did. 

Ges. His name ? 

Alb. This is the way to Altorf, sir. 

Ges. I would know thy father's name. 

Alb. The day is wasting — we have far to go. 

Ges. Thy father's name, I say ! 

Alb. I will not tell it thee. 

Ges. Not tell it me ! Why ? 

Alb. You may be an enemy of his. 

Ges. May be a friend. 

Alb. May be ; but should you be 
An enemy — although I would not tell you 
My father's name — I would guide you safe to Altorf. 
Will you follow me ? 

Ges. Never mind thy father's name ; 
What would it profit me to know it ? Thy hand ; 
We are not enemies. 

Alb. I never had an enemy. 

Ges. Lead on. 

Alb. Advance your staff 
As you descend, and fix it well. Come on. 

Ges. What ! must we take that steep ? 

Alb. 'T is nothing ! Come, 
I '11 go before. Never fear — come on! come on ! (Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. — The Gate of Altorf. (Enter Gesler and Albert.) 

Alb. You are at the gate of Altorf. (Is returning.) 

Ges. Tarry, boy ! 

Alb. I would be gone ; I am waited for. 

Ges. Come back ; 
Who waits for thee ? Come, tell me ; I am rich 
And powerful, and can reward. 

Alb. 'T is close 
On evening ; I have far to go ; I 'm late. 

Ges. Stay ! I can punish, too. 
Boy, do you know me ? 

Alb. No. 

Ges. Why fear you, then, 
To trust me with your father's name ? — Speak. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 535 

Alb. Why do you desire to know it ? 

Ges. You have served me, 
And I would thank him, if I chanced to pass 
His dwelling. 

Alb. 'T would not please him that a service 
So trifling should be made so much of. 

Ges. Trifling ! You have saved my life. 

Alb. Then do not question me, 
But let me go. 

Ges. When I have learned from thee 
Thy father's name. What, ho ! (Knocks.) 

Sol. (Within.) Who's there? 

Ges. Gesler. (Soldiers enter.) 

Alb. Ha, Gesler ! 

Ges. (To the soldiers.) Seize him. Wilt thou tell me 
Thy father's name ? 

Alb. No. 

Ges. I can bid them cast thee 
Into a dungeon ! Wilt thou tell it now ? 

Alb. No. 

Ges. I can bid them strangle thee ! Wilt tell it ? 

Alb. Never. 

Ges. Away with him ! Send Sarnem to me. 

(Soldiers take Albert off.) 
Behind that boy I see the shadow of 
A hand must wear my fetters, or 't will try 
To strip me of my power. How I loathed the free 
And fearless air with which he trod the hills ! 
I wished some way 

To find the parent nest of this fine eaglet, 
And harrow it ! I 'd like to clip the broad 
And full grown wing that taught his tender pinion 
So bold a flight. (Enter Sarnem.) 

Ha, Sarnem ! have the slaves 
Attending me returned ? 

Sar. They have. 

Ges. You '11 see 
That every one of them be laid in fetters. 

Sar. I will. 

Ges. Didst see that boy just now 1 

Sar. That passed me ? 

Ges. Yes. 

Sar. A mountaineer. 

Ges. You 'd say so, saw you him 
Upon the hills ; he walks them like their lord ! 



536 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

I tell thee, Sarnem, looking on that boy, 

I felt I was not master of those hills. 

He has a father. Neither promises 

Nor threats could draw from him his name — a father 

Who talks to him of liberty. I fear that man. 

Sar. He may be found. 

Ges. He must — and soon 
As found disposed of. I live 
In danger till I find that man. Send parties 
Into the mountains, to explore them far 
And wide ; and if they chance to light upon 
A father, who expects his child, command them 
To drag him straight before us. Sarnem, see it done. (Exeunt.) 
Scene 3. — -A chamber in the Castle. (Enter Oesler, Officers, and 
Sarnem, with Tell in chains and guarded. ) 

Sar. Down, slave ! Behold the governor. 
Down ! down ! and beg for mercy. 

Ges. (Seated.) Does he hear ? 

Sar. He does, but braves thy power. 

Officer. Why do n't you smite him for that look ? 

Ges. Can I believe 
My eyes ? — He smiles ! Nay, grasps 
His chains as he would make a weapon of them 
To lay the smiter dead. ( To Tell.) 
Why speakest thou not ? 

Tell. For wonder. 

Ges. Wonder ? 

Tell. Yes, that thou shouldst seem a man. 

Ges. What should I seem ? - 

Tell. A monster ! 

Ges. Ha ! Beware — think on thy chains. 

Tell. Though they were doubled and did weigh me down 
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up — 
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride 
Of telling thee, usurper, to thy teeth, 
Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains ? 
How came they on me ? 

Ges. Darest thou question me ? 

Tell. Darest thou not answer ? 

Ges. Do I hear ? 

Tell. Thou dost. 

Ges. Beware my vengeance. 

Tell. Can it more than kill ? 

Ges. Enough — it can do that. 

Tell. No, not enough : - 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 537 

It cannot take away the grace of life — 
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives — 
Its port erect with consciousness of truth — 
Its rich attire of honorable deeds — 
Its fan* report that 's rife on good men's tongues : 
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more 
Than it can pluck the brightness from the sun, 
Or with polluted finger tarnish it. 

Ges. But it can make thee writhe. 

Tell. It may. 

Ges. And groan. 

Tell. It may ; and I may cry 
Go on, though it should make me groan again. 

Ges. Whence comest thou ? 

Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn 
What news from them ? 

Ges. Canst tell me any ? 

Tell. Ay ; they watch no more the avalanche. 

Ges. Why so ? 

Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed, 
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track. 

Ges. What do they then ? 

Tell. Thank heaven, it is not thou ! 
Thou hast perverted nature in them. 
There 's not a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, but 
The thought of thee — doth wither to a curse. 

Ges. That 's right ? I 'd have them like their hills, 
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt 
Them ever so much. 

Tell. But they do sometimes smile. 

Ges. Ay ! — when is that ? 

Tell. When they do talk of vengeance. 

Ges. Vengeance ! Dare they talk of that ? 

Tell. Ay, and expect it too. 

Ges. From whence ? 

Tell. From heaven ! 

Ges. From heaven ? 

Tell. And their true hands 
Are lifted up to it on every hill 
For justice on thee. 

Ges. Where 's thy abode ? 

Tell. I told thee on the mountains. 

Ges. Art married ? 

Tell. Yes. 



538 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ges. And hast a family ? 

Tell. A son. 

Ges. A son ! Sarnem ! 

Sar. My lord, the boy. — ( Gesler signs to Sarnem to keep 
silence, and, whispering, sends him off.) 

Tell. The boy ! — what boy ? 
Is 't mine ? — and have they netted my young fledgling ? 
Now heaven support me, if they have ! He '11 own me, 
And share his father's ruin ! But a look 
"Would put him on his guard — yet how to give it ! 
Now, heart, thy nerve ; forget thou art flesh, be rock. 
They come — they come ! 
That step — that step — that little step, so light 
Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall 

Upon my heart ! I feel my child ! — [Enter Sarnem with Albert, 
whose eyes are riveted on TeWs bow, which Sarnem carries.) 
'T is he ! — We can but perish. 

Sar. See ! 

Alb. What? 

Sar. Look there ! 

Alb. I do, what would you have me see ? 

Sar. Thy father. 

Alb. Who ! That —that my father ! 

Tell. My boy — my boy ! — my own brave boy ! 
He 's safe ! (Aside.) 

Sar. (Aside to Gesler.) They 're like each other. 

Ges. Yet I see no sign 
Of recognition to betray the link 
Unites a father and his child. 

Sar. My lord, 
I am sure it is his father. Look at them. 
It may be 

A preconcerted thing 'gainst such a chance, 
That they survey each other coldly thus. 

Ges. We shall try. Lead forth the caitiff. 

Sar. To a dungeon ? 

Ges. No : into the court. 

Sar. The court, my lord ? 

Ges. And send 
To tell the headsman to make ready. Quick ! 
The slave shall die ! — You marked the boy ? 

Sar. I did. He started — 't is his father. 

Ges. We shall see. Away with him ! 

Tell. Stop! — Stop! 

Ges. What would you ? 

*0 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AN© COMIC. 539 

Tell. Time ! — a little time to call my thoughts together. 

Ges. Thou shalt not have a minute. 

Tell. Some one, then, to speak with. 

Ges. Hence with him ! 

Tell. A moment ! — Stop ! 
Let me speak to the boy. 

Ges. Is he thy son ? 

Tell. And if 
He were, art thou so lost to nature, as 
To send me forth to die before his face ? 

Ges. Well ! speak with him. 
Now, Sarnem, mark them well. 

Tell. Thou dost not know me, boy — and well for thee 
Thou dost not. I 'm the father of a son 
About thy age. Thou, 
I see, wast born like him upon the hills ; 
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thralldom, he 
May chance to cross thee ; if he should, I pray thee 
Relate to him what has been passing here, 
And say I laid my hand upon thy head, 
And said to thee — If he were here, as thou art, 
Thus would I bless him. Mayest thou live, my boy ! 
To see thy country free, or die for her, 
As I do ! * (Albert weeps.) 

Sar. Mark ! he weeps. 

Tell. Were he my son, 
He would not shed a tear ! He would remember 
The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan 
A thousand fathoms' depth of nether air ; 
Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk, 
And meet the lightning eye to eye — where last 
We spoke together — when I told him death 
Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life — 
Embraced for virtue's sake — He shed a tear ! 
Now were he by, I 'd talk to him, and his cheek 
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye — 
I 'd talk to him — 

Sar. He falters ! 

Tell. 'T is too much! 
And yet it must be done ! I 'd talk to him — 

Ges. Of what? 

Tell. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make 
A widow of ! — I'd talk to him of her. 
I 'd bid him tell her, next to liberty, 
Her name was the last word my lips pronounced. 



540 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And I would charge him never to forget 
To love and cherish her, as he would have 
His father's dying blessing rest upon him ! 

Sar. You see, as he doth prompt the other acts. 

Tell. So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me. 
My boy — my boy ! — for the hills, the hills, 
To see him bound along their tops again, 
With liberty. 

Sar. Was there not all the father in that look ? 

Ges. Yet 't is 'gainst nature. 

Sar. Not if he believes 
To own the son would be to make him share 
The father's death. 

Ges. I did not think of that ! — ( To Tell.) 'T is well 
The boy is not thy son — I 've destined him 
To die along with thee. 

Tell. To die ? — For what ? 

Ges. For having braved my power, as thou hast. Lead 
Them forth. 

Tell. He 's but a child. 

Ges. Away with them ! 

Tell. Perhaps an only child. 

Ges. No matter. 

Tell. He may have a mother. 

Ges. So the viper hath ; 
And yet, who spares it for the mother's sake ? 

Tell. I talk to stone ! I talk to it as though 
'T were flesh ; and know 't is none. I '11 talk to it 
No more. Come, my boy — 
I taught thee how to live — I '11 show thee how to die. 

Ges. He is thy child ? 

Tell. He is my child. 

Ges. I 've wrung a tear from him ! Thy name ? 

Tell. My name? 
It matters not to keep it from thee now ; 
My name is Tell. 

Ges. Tell! — William Tell? 

Tell. The same. 

Ges. What ! he, so famed 'bove all his countrymen 
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat ? 
And such a master of his bow, 't is said 
His arrows never miss ! — Indeed — I '11 take 
Exquisite vengeance ! — Mark ! I '11 spare thy life — 
Thy boy's too — both of you are free — on one 
Condition 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 541 

Tell. Name it. 

Ges. I would see you make 
A trial of your skill with that same bow 
You shoot so well with. 

Tell. Name the trial you 
Would have me make. 

Ges. You look upon your boy 
As though instinctively you guessed it. 

Tell. Look upon my boy ! — What mean you ? Look upon 
My boy as though I guessed it ? — Guessed the trial 
You 'd have me make ! — Guessed it 
Instinctively ! You do not mean — no — no — 
You would not have me make a trial of 
My skill upon my child ! — Impossible ! 
I do not guess your meaning. 

Ges. I would see 
Thee hit an apple at the distance of 
A hundred paces. 

Tell. Is my boy to hold it ? 

Ges. No. 

Tell. No ! — I '11 send the arrow through the core ! 

Ges. It is to rest upon his head. 

Tell. Great heaven, you hear him ! 

Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give — 
Such trial of the skill thou art master of, 
Or death to both of you ; not otherwise 
To be escaped. 

Tell. Oh, monster ! 

Ges. Wilt thou do it ? 

Alb. He will ! he will ! 

Tell. Ferocious monster ! — Make 
A father murder his own child. 

Ges. Take off 
His chains, if he consent. 

Tell. With his own hand ! 

Ges. Does he consent ! 

Alb. He does. (Gesler signs to his officers, who proceed to take 
off TelVs chains ; Tell all the time unconscious what they do.) 

Tell. With his own hand ! 
Murder his child with his own hand — This hand ! 
The hand I 've led him, when an infant, by ! — 
'T is beyond horror — 't is most horrible. [to me ? 

Amazement ! (His chains fall off.) What 's that you 've done 
Villains ! put on my chains again. My hands 
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it, 



542 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

That they should drink my child's ! Here ! here ! I '11 not 
Murder my boy for Gesler. 

Alb. Father — father! — 
You will not hit me, father ! — 

Tell. Hit thee ! Send 
The arrow through thy brain — or, missing that, 
Shoot out an eye — or, if thine eye escape, 
Mangle the cheek I 've seen thy mother's lips 
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee — hit a hair 
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart — 

Ges. Dost thou consent ? 

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver. 

Ges. For what ? 

Tell. — To shoot my boy ! 

Alb. No — father — no! 
To save me ! — you '11 be sure to hit the apple — 
Will you not save me, father ? 

Tell. Lead me forth — 
I '11 make the trial ! 

Alb. Thank you ! 

Tell. Thank me ? Do 
You know for what ! — I will not make the trial, 
To take him to his mother in my arms, 
And lay him down a corse before her ! 

Ges. Then he dies this moment — and you certainly 
Do murder him whose life you have a chance 
To save, and will not use it. 

Tell. Well — I '11 do it : I '11 make the trial. 

Alb. Father — 

Tell. Speak not to me : 
Let me not hear thy voice — Thou must be dumb ; 
And so should all things be — Earth should be dumb, 
And heaven — unless its thunders muttered at 
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it ! — Give me 
My bow and quiver ! — 

Ges. When all 's ready. 

Tell. Well! — lead on! 

Scene 4. — (Enter slowly, People in evident distress — Officers, 
Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Albert, and Soldiers — one bearing Tell's 
bow and quiver — another with a basket of a]jples.) 
Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence 

A hundred paces. Take the distance. 
Tell. Is the line a true one ? 
Ges. True or not, what is 't to thee ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. ' 543 

Tell What is 't to me ? — A little thing, 
A very little thing — ■ a yard or two 
Is nothing here or there — were it a wolf 
I shot at ! — Never mind. 

Ges. Be thankful, slave, 
Our grace accords thee life on any terms. 

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler ! — Villain, stop ! 
You measure to the sun. 

Ges. And what of that ? 
What matter whether to or from the sun ! 

Tell. I'd have it at my back — The sun should shine 
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots. 
I cannot see to shoot against the sun — 
I will not shoot against the sun ! 

Ges. Give him his way ! Thou hast cause to bless my mercy. 

Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see 
The apple I 'm to shoot at. 

Ges. Stay ! show me the basket ! — there — 

Tell. You 've picked the smallest one. 

Ges. I know I have. 

Tell. ! do you ? — But you see 
The color on 't is dark — I'd have it light, 
To see it better. 

Ges. Take it as it is : 
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit'st it. 

Tell. True — true ! — I did not think of that — I wonder 
I did not think of that — Give me some chance 
To save my boy ! — ( Throws away the apple with all his force.) 
I will not murder him, 
If I can help it — for the honor of 
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone. 

Ges. Well : choose thyself. 

Tell. Have I a friend among the lookers-on ? 

Ver. (Rushing forward.) Here, Tell. 

Tell. I thank thee, Verner ! 
He is a friend runs out into a storm 
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief. 
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take 
The shot too soon. Yerner, whatever be 
The issue of this hour, the common cause 
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow's sun 
Set on the tyrant's banner ! Yerner ! Yerner ! 
The boy ! — the boy ! — Thinkest thou he hath the courage 
To stand it ? 

Ver. Yes. 



544 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Tell. Does he tremble ? 

Ver. No. 

Tell. Art sure ? 

Ver. I am. 

Tell. How looks he ? 

Ver. Clear and smilingly. 
If you doubt it — look yourself. 

Tell. No — no — my friend ; 
To hear it is enough. 

Ver. He bears himself so much above his years — 

Tell. I know ! — I know. 

Ver. With constancy so modest ! — 

Tell. I was sure he would — 

Ver. And looks with such relying love 
And reverence upon you — 

Tell. Man! — Man! — Man! 
"No more ! Already I 'm too much the father 
To act the man ! — Verner, no more, my friend ! 
I would be flint — flint — flint. Do n't make me feel 
I 'm not — do not mind me ! — Take the boy 
And set him, Verner, with his back to me. 
Set him upon his knees — and place this apple 
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me, 
Thus, Verner ; charge him to keep steady — tell him 
I '11 hit the apple ! — Verner, do all this 
More briefly than I tell it thee. 

Ver. Come, Albert ! [Leading him out.) 

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go ? 

Ver. No. 

Alb. I would only kiss his hand. 

Ver. You must not. 

Alb. I must ! — I cannot go from him without. 

Ver. It is his will you should. 

Alb. His will is it ? 
I am content then — come. 

Tell. My boy ! [Holding out his arms to him.) 

Alb. My father ! [Rushing into Tell's arms.) 

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I ? — Go now 
My son — and keep in mind that I can shoot — 
Go boy — be thou but steady, I will hit 
The apple — Go ! — God bless thee — go. — My bow ! — 

( The bow is handed to him. ) 
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou ? — thou 
Hast never failed him yet, old servant — No, 
I 'm sure of thee — I know thy honesty, 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 545 

Thou art staunch — staunch. — Let me see my quiver. 

Ges. Give him a single arrow. 

Tell. Do you shoot? 

Sol. I do. 

Tell. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend ? 
The point you see is bent ; the feather jagged — (Breaks it.) 
That 's all the use 't is fit for. 

Ges. Let him have another. 

Tell. Why 't is better than the first, 
But yet not good enough for such an aim 
As I 'm to take — 'T is heavy in the shaft ; 
I '11 not shoot with it ! ( Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver. 
Bring it ! — 'T is not one arrow in a dozen 
I 'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less 
A dove like that. — 

Ges. It matters not. 
Show him the quiver. 

Tell. See if the boy is ready. 

Ver. He is. ( Tell here hides an arrow under his vest.) 

Tell. I 'm ready too ! Keep silent for 
Heaven's sake, and do not stir — and let me have 
Your prayers — your prayers — and be my witnesses 
That if his life 's in peril from my hand, 
'T is only for the chance of saving it. (To the people.) 

Ges. Go on. 

Tell. I will. 
O friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless 
And silent. ( Tell shoots — a shout of exultation bursts from the 
crowd. TelVs head drops on his bosom ; he with difficulty supports 
himself upon his bow.) 

Ver. (Bushing in with Albert.) Thy boy is safe, no hair of 
him is touched. 

Alb. Father, I 'm safe ~ Your Albert 's safe, dear father, — 
Speak to me ! Speak to me ! 

Ver. He cannot, boy ! 

Alb. You grant him life ? 

Ges. I do. 

Alb. And we are free ? 

Ges. You are. (Crossing angrily behind.) 

Alb. Thank heaven ! — thank heaven ! 

Ver. Open his vest, 
And give him air. (Albert opens his father's vest, and the arrow 
drops. Tell starts — fixes his eye on Albert, and clasps him to his 
breast.) 

Tell. My boy! — My boy! 
46 



546 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ges. For what 
Hid you that arrow in your breast ? — Speak, slave ! 

Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy ! knowles. 



THE KING-MAKER. 

EDWARD WARWICK. 



Edw. Let me have no intruders ; above all, 
Keep Warwick from my sight — {Enter Warwick.') 

War. Behold him here ; 
.No welcome guest, it seems, unless I ask 
My lord of Suffolk's leave : there was a time 
When Warwick wanted not his aid to gain 
Admission here. 

Edw. There was a time, perhaps, 
When Warwick more desired, and more deserved it. 

War. Never ! I 've been a foolish, faithful slave ; 
All my best years, the morning of my life, 
Have been devoted to your service. What 
Are now the fruits ? Disgrace and infamy ; 
My spotless name, which never yet the breath 
Of calumny had tainted, made the mock 
For foreign fools to carp at : but 't is fit, 
Who trust in princes should be thus rewarded. 

Edw. I thought, my lord, I had full well repaid 
Your services with honors, wealth, and power 
Unlimited : thy all-directing hand 
Guided in secret every latent wheel 
Of government, and moved the whole machine : 
Warwick was all in all, and powerless Edward 
Stood like a cipher in the great account. 

War. Who gave that cipher worth, and seated the«; 
On England's throne ? Thy undistinguished name 
Had rotted in the dust from whence it sprang, 
And moldered in oblivion, had not Warwick 
Dug from its sordid mine the useless ore, 
And stamped it with a diadem. Thou knowest, 
This wretched country, doomed, perhaps, like Rome, 
To fall by its own self-destroying hand, 
Tossed for so many years in the rough sea 
Of civil discord, but for me had perished. 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 547 

In that distressful hour, I seized the helm, 

Bade the rough waves subside in peace, and steered 

Your shattered vessel safe into the harbor. 

You may despise, perhaps, that useless aid 

Which you no longer want ; but know, proud youth, 

He who forgets a friend, deserves a foe. 

Edw. Know, too, reproach for benefits received 
Pays every debt, and cancels obligation. 

War. Why, that indeed is frugal honesty, 
A thrifty, saving knowledge : when the debt 
Grows burdensome, and cannot be discharged, 
A sponge will wipe out all, and cost you nothing. 

Edw. When you have counted o'er the numerous train 
Of mighty gifts your bounty lavished on me, 
You may remember next the injuries 
Which I have done you : let me know them all, 
And I will make you ample satisfaction. 

War. Thou canst not ; thou hast robbed me of a jewel 
It is not in thy power to restore. 
I was the first, shall future annals say, 
That broke the sacred bond of public trust 
And mutual confidence ; ambassadors, 
In after times, — mere instruments, perhaps, 
Of venal statesmen, — shall recall my name 
To witness that they want not an example, 
And plead my guilt to sanctify their own. 
Amidst the herd of mercenary slaves 
That haunt your court, could none be found but Warwick, 
To be the shameless herald of a lie ? 

Edw. And wouldst thou turn the vile reproach on me ? 
If I have broke my faith, and stained the name 
Of England, thank thy own pernicious counsels 
That urged me to it, and extorted from me 
A cold consent to what my heart abhorred. 

War. I 've been abused, insulted, and betrayed : 
My injured honor cries aloud for vengeance. 
Her wounds will never close ! 

Edw. These gusts of passion 
Will but inflame them. If I have been right 
Informed, my lord, besides these dangerous scars 
Of bleeding honor, you have other wounds, 
As deep, though not so fatal : — such, perhaps, 
As none but fair Elizabeth can cure. 

War. Elizabeth ! 

Edw. Nay, start not : I have cause 



548 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To wonder most. I little thought indeed, 
When Warwick told me I might learn to love, 
He was himself so able to instruct me ; 
But I 've discovered all ! 

War. And so have I. 
Too well I know thy breach of friendship there, 
Thy fruitless, base endeavors to supplant me. 

Edw. I scorn it, sir ! Elizabeth hath charms, 
And I have equal right with you to admire them : 
Nor see I aught so godlike in the form, 
So all-commanding in the name of Warwick, 
That he alone should revel in the charms 
Of beauty, and monopolize perfection. 
I knew not of your love. 

War. 'T is false! 
You knew it all, and meanly took occasion, 
Whilst I was busied in the noble office 
Your grace thought fit to honor me withal, 
To tamper with a weak, unguarded woman, 
And basely steal a treasure 
Which your kingdom could not purchase. 

Edw. How know you that ? But be it as it may, 
I had a right, nor will I tamely yield 
My claim to happiness, the privilege 
To choose the partner of my throne : 
It is a branch of my prerogative. 

War. Prerogative ! What 's that ? the boast of tyrants, 
A borrowed jewel, glittering in the crown 
With specious lustre, lent but to betray. 
You had it, sir, and hold it, from the people. 

Edw. And therefore do I prize it : I would guard 
Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine ; 
But when proud Faction and her rebel crew 
Insult their sovereign, trample on his laws, 
And bid defiance to his power, the people, 
In justice to themselves, will then defend 
His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave. 

War. Go to your darling people, then ; for soon, 
If I mistake not, 't will be needful ; try 
Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them 
Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause, 
If I forbid them. 

Edw. Is it so, my lord ? 
Then mark my words : I 've been your slave too long, 
And you have ruled me with a rod of iron ; 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 549 

But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master, 
And will be so. The king who delegates 
His power to others' hands, but ill deserves 
The crown he wears. 

War. Look well, then, to your own : 
It sits but loosely on your head ; for know, 
The man who injured Warwick never passed 
Unpunished yet. 

Edw. Nor he who threatened Edward. 
You may repent it, sir. My guards there ! Seize 
This traitor, and convey him to the Tower ; 
There let him learn obedience. franklin. 



THE COLONISTS. 



MR. BARLOW ARTHUR BEVERLY CHARLES EDWARD FRAN- 
CIS — GEORGE HENRY LEWIS OLIVER PHILIP ROBERT. 

Mr. B. Come, my boys, I have a new play for you. I will 
be the founder of a colony ; and you shall be people of different 
trades and professions, coming to offer yourselves to go with 
me. — What are you, Arthur ? 

Arth. I am a farmer, sir. 

Mr. B. Very well. Farming is the chief thing we have to 
depend upon. The farmer puts the seed into the earth, and 
takes care of it, when it is grown to the ripe corn. Without the 
farmer we should have no bread. But you must work very 
hard ; there will be trees to cut down, and roots to drag out, and 
a great deal of labor. 

Arth. I shall be ready to do my part. 

Mr. B. Well, then, I shall take you willingly, and as many 
more such good fellows as you can find. We shall have land 
enough ; and you may fall to work as soon as you please. Now 
for the next. 

Bev. I am a miller, sir. 

Mr. B. A very useful trade ! Our corn must be ground, or 
it will do us but little good. What must we do for a mill, my 
friend ? 

Bev. I suppose we must make one. 

Mr. B, Then we must take a mill-wright with us, and carry 
mill-stones. Who is next ? 

Cha. I am a carpenter, sir. 



550 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mr. B. The most necessary man that could offer. We shall 
find you work enough, never fear. There will be houses to build, 
fences to make, and chairs and tables besides. But all our tim- 
ber is growing ; we shall have hard work to fell it, to saw boards 
and planks, to hew timber, and to frame and raise buildings. 

Oka. I will do my best, sir. 

Mr. B. Then I engage you ; but you had better bring two or 
three able hands along with you. 

Edw. I am a blacksmith. 

Mr. B. An excellent companion for the carpenter. We can- 
not do without either of you. You must bring your great bel- 
lows, anvil, and vice ; and we will set up a forge for you, as soon 
as we arrive. Who is next ? 

Fran. I am a shoemaker. 

Mr. B. Shoes we cannot do well without ; but I fear we shall 
get no leather. 

Fran. But I can dress skins, sir. 

Mr. B. Can you ? Then you are a clever fellow. I will 
have you, though I give you double wages. 

Geo. I am a barber and hair-dresser. 

Mr. B. What can we do with you ? If you will shave our 
men's rough beards once a week, and crop their hair once a 
quarter, and be content to help the carpenter the rest of the time, 
we will take you. But you will have no ladies to curl, or gen- 
tlemen to powder, I assure you. 

Leiv. I am a doctor. 

Mr. B. Then, sir, you are very welcome ; we shall some of 
us be sick ; and we are likely to get cuts, and bruises, and broken 
bones. You will be very useful. We shall take you with 
pleasure. 

Hen. I am a lawyer, sir. 

Mr. B. Sir, your most obedient servant. When we are rich 
enough to go to law, we will let you know. 

Oli. I am a schoolmaster. 

Mr. B. That is a very respectable and useful profession. As 
soon as our children are old enough, we shall be glad of your 
services. Though we are hard-working men, we do not mean 
to be ignorant ; every one among us ought to be taught reading 
and writing. Until we have employment for you in teaching, if 
you will keep our accounts, and at present read sermons to us 
on Sundays, we shall be glad to have you among us. Will you 
go? 

Oli. With all my heart, sir. 

Mr. B. Who comes here ? 

Phil. I am a soldier, sir ; will you have me ? 



DIALOGUES SERIOUS AND COMIC. 551 

Mr. B. We are peaceable people, and hope we shall not be 
obliged to fight. We are all soldiers, and must learn to defend 
ourselves ; we shall have no occasion for you, unless you can be 
a mechanic or a farmer, as well as a soldier. 

Rob. I am a gentleman, sir. 

Mr. B. A gentleman ! And what good can you do us ? 

Bob. I expect to shoot game enough for my own eating ; you 
can give me a little bread and a few vegetables ; and the bar- 
ber shall be my servant. 

Mr. B. Pray, sir, why should we do all this for you ? 

Bob. Why, sir, that you may have the credit of saying that 
you have one gentleman, at least, in your colony. 

Mr. B. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A fine gentleman, truly ! Sir, when 
we desire the honor of your company, we will send for you. 

L. AIKEN. 



THE CHURCHYARD. 

FIRST VOICE SECOND VOICE. 



First Voice. 
How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear ! 
With the howls of the storm-wind — the creaks of the bier, 
And the white bones all clattering together. 

Second Voice. 
How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep : 
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, 
And flowerets perfume it with ether. 

First Voice. 
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, 
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, 
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. 

Second Voice. 
How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : 
No tempests are there : — but the nightingales come 
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. 

First Voice. 
The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : 
'T is the vulture's abode : — 't is the wolf's dreary cave, 
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. 



552 THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Second Voice. 
There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, 
Or rests on the sod ; — while the turtles above, 
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. 

First Voice. 
There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath 
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death ; 
And trees are all barren and bare ! 

Second Voice. 
Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, 
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, 
With lilies and jessamine fair. 

First Voice. 
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, 
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, 
He is launched on the wreck-covered river ! 

Second Voice. 
The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, 
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, 

And sweetly reposes for ever. karamsin. 



THE END. 



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